


Good Things Will Find You

by CautionaryTales



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Bullying, Classist!Enjolras, Enjolras grows and changes in the revolutionary activist we all known and love, Enjolras is an asshole and thinks there's nothing wrong with it, F/M, Grantaire changes into the world-weary cynic we all want to hug, Heterosexism, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, M/M, Multi, Self Confidence Issues, Slurs, but grantaire is physically injured at one point, the bullying is mainly verbal, there will be trigger warnings in applicable chapters if you'd like to skip, warning for violent bullying
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-20 14:00:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1513088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CautionaryTales/pseuds/CautionaryTales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is very good at being invisible.  Well, good enough to survive high school, anyway.  It’s impossible to avoid the entire football team all the time, but he and Combeferre manage to hide safely in the library most days.  Everything is normal and status quo until Grantaire finally stands up for himself,  punches the scariest bully in the school, and starts to notice a strange relationship forming between his best friend and one of the jocks.  Bad things happen very quickly and Grantaire’s mom decides to move out of town.  When he returns for university a few years later, everything has changed and he’s finding it difficult to adjust.  The lines between old enemies and friends blur, and Grantaire finds himself wondering whether people really can change after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Giant thanks for valyrianking and queerpercy for editing for me, your help is priceless. Shoutout to enjolgay as well for letting me type a good portion of this fic at her when I came up with the idea. Your encouragement is priceless.

Grantaire wakes up early and leaps out of bed.  A hand flies wildly toward his alarm clock as he crosses his room and gathers a pile of clothes from his closet.  Upon brief inspection, they would seem to be a part of the enormous mound of clothing that spills from the small wardrobe.  However, Grantaire had carefully picked out each item and laid them atop the mess a few days prior.  First impressions will be important today.

He heads to the bathroom and squeezes an ample amount of toothpaste onto his brush, eager to be rid of the gritty morning breath that plagues his throat.  After he spits, he runs a hand through his hair, having to take it out after an inch or so when it gets stuck.  Grantaire considers the hairbrush that is lying on the counter for all of three seconds before he shrugs.  There’s no point in trying to tame his curls, it would be painful and fruitless as the black mass would be whipped into a frenzy again as soon as he left the house.  Sneaking a glance at the mirror, Grantaire makes a face at his reflection.  It hasn’t changed for at while, he doesn’t know why he expects anything different to be looking back at him.

Puberty hadn’t hit Grantaire so much as gently brushed past and given him an awful bout of acne.  He still has a little bit of baby pudge left around his face and his gangly limbs do absolutely nothing for his clumsy disposition.  His large blue eyes look owlish behind his thick-rimmed glasses, and the cloud of black hair that surrounds his head is more frizz than anything, reminiscent of a badly-kempt afro.  The feature that he hates most about his appearance, however, is his large nose; it is a few sizes too big for his face.  With no other redeeming physical features to rely on, Grantaire has learned to avoid mirrors as a general rule and gives little thought to the way he looks.  He tells himself that it does not matter to him.

Sometimes, if he repeats this enough, he almost starts to believe it.

He shakes his head and replaces the toothbrush that he’s been holding.  Quickly splashing water on his face, he lathers up some soap and cleans up.  As soon as he is free of suds, he forgoes use of the hand towel hanging by the door and wipes his wet hands on the jeans he threw on earlier.

On the way downstairs, he promises himself that today will be different.  This is when it will all change.

His mom greets him cheerily and waves a hand toward the table.  It’s a first day of school tradition that they always have chocolate pancakes and hot cocoa for breakfast.  The boy doesn’t notice his mom’s concerned gaze as he finishes eating and grabs his backpack.

“See you later, mom,” Grantaire yells back to the kitchen as he shoves his feet in his shoes.

His mom walks into the room and tutts. “You are going to ruin your shoes like that.  Come on, honey, undo the laces.”

He sighs but does as he’s told.

Leaning against the wall, Grantaire’s mom bites her lip.  “Cameron, honey... just don’t- just be careful, okay?”

“Sure, mom, I will.”  Grantaire opens the door and pauses, looking over his shoulder with a smile.  “It’ll be different this year, you’ll see.”

Before she can respond, he is gone, already bounding down the driveway toward the sidewalk.  It’s a crisp, clear morning and there are only a few clouds lingering in the distance, nature’s warning of coming rain.  They’re far enough away that Grantaire has nothing to worry about for the time-being.  

As he continues down the pavement, and rounds the corner, Grantaire can practically hear his mother worrying from here.  He shakes his head.  She’s concerned for no reason, it’s the first year of grade eleven, everything changes when you leave the junior grades.  All of Grantaire’s knowledge about secondary school thus far has lead him to this conclusion and he is certain: it’s going to be different.

It isn’t.

Grantaire arrives and is promptly shoved into a locker by one of the jocks, theoffensive lineman on the football team, Bahorel.

“Watch where you’re going, four-eyes,” the larger boy spits at him.

Re-adjusting his glasses, Grantaire fiddles with the strings on his hoodie, hunching his shoulders in a subconscious effort to make himself smaller.  He remembers when he adopted the stance: in fourth grade after he figured out that it drew less attention to him.  

As Grantaire becomes conscious of the change in posture, he hates himself for it.  Things like this make him feel weak and helpless.  He stands up a little straighter, shaking off the sinking feeling that is settling in his stomach.

Telling himself that this first encounter doesn’t mean anything, he continues down the hallway to student services.  Grantaire collects his schedule and locker combination without further incident.  He knows where all of the classrooms are by this point so he quickly skims down the list, trying to recollect what he’s heard about the teachers he has.  Grinning as he notices that he has study hall first period and art during second, Grantaire continues reading.   

His schedule isn’t too bad and he has calculus last period, which means he can sleep during the end of the day.  From what he’s heard about the teacher, M. Jenvier won’t care.  

 _Maybe I’ll be able to get some extra sketching done,_ he thinks as he reaches his locker.

Grantaire’s eyes begin to prickle and sting when he sees it.  

“LOSER” is written across the shiny blue surface in thick, black permanent marker.  Pulling the sleeve of his sweater over his hand, he scrubs at the word, only succeeding in smudging the ink, but not erasing the letters.

“Cameron.” Grantaire winces and turns around to face his Vice Principal, Ms. Thenardier.

“It’s Grantaire,” he corrects.

The woman makes an unamused sound and gestures behind him.  “What did you do to your locker?”

Grantaire chews the inside of his cheek as he moves away from the surface, worrying his tongue along the scar tissue that has formed there.  “It wasn’t me...”

His voice trails off and he watches her run a plump finger along the curve of the “R”.

“It’s your locker, therefore your responsibility, you know that.”  Her bright pink mouth curves into what should look like a sympathetic smile, but seems more like a grimace on her  face.  “You need to stop provoking this behaviour.”

“I’m not doing anything to ‘provoke’ this, believe me.”

She ignores him.  “It’s not fair to the janitors to have to keep cleaning this off for you.”

“Maybe you should talk to the people who did it,” Grantaire says, trying to soften the frustration in his voice.  Angering her would only make the situation worse.

“Don’t tell me how to do my job, young man,” she says in clipped tones.  “I expect to see you here after school, scrubbing this off.”

“What?  But- that’s- I didn’t do this, I shouldn’t be punished for it.”

“This is not punishment.  Think of it as community service.” Her lips purse together as she regards to the boy in front of her and Grantaire knows what’s coming before she says it.  “Anyway, all parties involved in an altercation bear equivalent burdens of responsibility.”

He bites in lip to cut off a response that would definitely not be wise, and nods, hit chest tightening.  Scrubbing a finger against the grubby surface of his locker again, he sighs.  He watches the marker bleed under the heat of his skin, avoiding eye contact with Ms. Thenardier  and thinking about how long it will take him to clean the words off completely.

“Do you have something to say to me, Cameron?” the woman says expectantly, crossing her arms over her chest, not quite succeeding to fold them completely over her large chest.

Grantaire decides against correcting her, it’s been two years and she still hasn’t gotten the hint, nothing will change at this point.  Instead, he mumbles, “I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted.” she straightens out her blazer and nods at him. “Now don’t be late for class, move along.”

Grantaire waits until he hears her footsteps fade before he leans his forehead gently against the cold metal and groans.   _Well that was humiliating._  When the bell rings, he doesn’t rush off to class as suggested because study hall doesn’t require attendance to be taken.  Gathering his sketchbook and art supplies for second period, Grantaire twists his lock shut and heads toward the library.

Most students sleep in if they have a spare first period and drive themselves in later.  The ones who don’t have their license yet spend the time in the cafeteria, chatting while they finish last-minute homework.  Thoughts of joining his classmates cross his mind before he quashes them.  Nothing has changed so far, he’s still the freak who gets shoved into lockers and has his locker vandalized for the amusements of his classmates.  Grantaire’s presence among the other students in the caf would only provide an excuse for them to target him.  Forgetting any hopes of being able to fit in this year, he continues down the hallway.

Predictably, he finds Combeferre nestled away in the far corner of the room, hidden in his usual spot behind the massive bookshelves.  The two boys requested first period spares and it obviously worked.  Grantaire breathed out a sigh of relief at the knowledge that he will have a companion to spend the hour with.

A book is perched in Combeferre’s lap and he is completely lost in it, not noticing Grantaire until the boy flops down next to him.

“What did they write on yours?” Combeferre says in lieu of a greeting, softly closing the book cover and making sure to keep his place with an extended index finger.

“’LOSER.’  Mrs. Thenardier saw it and made me apologize for being the cause. “

The other boy snorts and shakes his head.  “Figures.”

“Yeah, and I’m supposed to clean it up tonight after school.”

“Darn.” Combeferre looks surprised.  Thenardier has never made either of them do that before.  “Do you want me to help you?”

No, you shouldn’t have to stay, too,” Grantaire protests.  “I’ll be fine.”

“If you say so,” the other boy says.

“What about you?  What did they put on yours?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Grantaire’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline, disappearing behind the unruly cloud of frizz.

“Yeah.” Combeferre shrugs.  “There was a black smudge, looked like someone started to write something.  I assumed that they did something to you as well.”

“I wonder why they stopped.”

“I don’t know.”  Fiddling with his book, Combeferre stares at the shelf in front of him.  “I heard that someone interfered.”

That’s great!  Do you know who it was?” Grantaire asks.

“Some people were saying that it might have been Courfeyrac who said something, but I don’t know what reasons he would have.  He’s just another jock, and as far as I know he hates me as much as the rest of them.”

“Courfeyrac?” Grantaire nods slowly, “That makes sense, I guess.  He _is_ a dick, but he’s never been anywhere as bad as the rest of them.”

Combeferre makes a sound of agreement.  “Maybe you’re right, things might finally be looking up for us.”

“For you,” Grantaire corrects.

“We don’t know that, Courf might not have gotten to them in time to stop his friends from defacing your locker,” he says, always logical.

“Nah, Bahorel still seemed content to introduce me to a lovely locker this morning.  Face-to-face, very personal.  Courfeyrac is just one person, there’s no way he’s going to change all of his friends.”

Combeferre glances over at him.  “Hey, where did all this cynicism come from?  You’re always the one telling me to look on the bright side; that people can change.”

“Maybe I was wrong.”  He scuffs his shoe along the hideous carpeting.  “This has been happening since grade one, it’s been ten years and nothing is different.  I just thought....”

“I know.” Combeferre places a gentle hand on his shoulder.  “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Grantaire says, “Don’t let my bad mood get you down.”

Combeferre smiles, the side of his lips quirking up, and he opens his book again.  As he continues to read, Grantaire pushes his glasses up his nose again and laughs softly at the thought that crosses his mind.

“We both have had glasses for as long as I can remember, I don’t understand why four-eyes is _my_ nickname, what gives?”

“Well, that's obvious.” Combeferre looks up with a grin plastered on his face.  “It’s because I pull off the look.  I’ve been told I look quite ‘hot’ in glasses.”

Grantaire takes in his friend’s appearance, scrawny limbs and frame just starting to fill out, just a touch farther down the path to puberty than him.  Disheveled dark brown hair, freckles speckled across his small, straight nose, and soft brown eyes are definitely his defining features.  Grantaire has to admit, Combeferre isn’t bad looking, might be considered attractive in a few years.  

As soon as the thought crosses his mind, he pushes it aside and swallows the panic that follows.   He’s already enough of a freak, Grantaire can’t afford to give anyone another reason to hate him.

“Sure, whatever you say, ‘Ferre,” is his chosen response as he plucks at the boy’s oversized sweater.  It hangs from a bony shoulder, draping comically off of Combeferre’s slight torso.

Combeferre looks affronted, clutching a dramatic hand to his chest as he punches Grantaire’s shoulder with the other.  “Hey, with this body?  I hear they’re begging me to join the football team this year.”

They dissolve into giggles that stop abruptly when a voice trails around the bookshelf behind them.  “I should hope not, we do actually want to win some games.”

“Come off it, Enjolras.” Grantaire frowns as the blonde football captain comes into view.  “We were joking.”

“Well that’s a relief, I didn’t expect that you were serious, I mean, look at you.”  Enjolras gestures toward Combeferre and Grantaire scowls at the way his friend presses himself against the wall they are leaning against, curling into himself.  Pages of the boy’s book flutter slightly at the tremor of his hands.

“Don’t talk to him like that.” Standing up, Grantaire leans forward into Enjolras’ personal space.

This only causes him to laugh. “That’s rich coming from you, are you suggesting that you believe either of you could make the team?”

“Well, no, I-” Grantaire backs up a few steps.

“You couldn’t even afford the equipment,” Enjolras sneers, walking forward as the other boy retreats until Grantaire’s back hits a wall.  “The team doesn’t take on charity cases.”

The smaller boy can’t help the way he flinches away at those words; Grantaire never thought that Enjolras would ever stoop to attack his financial situation.  Everyone knows why he’s dressed the way he is; thrift-store clothing that either clings to him tightly or is two sizes too big.  Everyone knows why he lives in the part of town that nobody goes into after dark.

“Enjolras, that’s enough,” Courfeyrac appears behind his friend, resting a restraining hand on Enjolras’ shoulder to pull him back from where he is standing just a few inches away from Grantaire.

Combeferre pushes himself off of the floor quickly, taking Grantaire’s hand.  “Come on, R, let’s go.”

“Oh, that’s cute, you’re escaping with your boyfriend?” Enjolras throws his shoulder out of Courfeyrac’s hand and his lip curls upward in disgust.  “Faggot.”

Now it’s Combeferre who is holding back his friend.  Grantaire’s posture is murderous, but his expression is pure hurt and it’s painful to look at.  Enjolras blinks and looks around, bewildered.  He takes in Courfeyrac’s disapproval and the way Grantaire’s chin trembles, and slowly backs away.  It isn’t until his shoulders hit the bookshelf behind him that Enjolras seems to realize what happened.  Shaking his head, he reaches forward but hesitates as Combeferre glares at him.

It only takes a few seconds for Combeferre to snap into action and pull Grantaire away from his aggressors and toward the library door.

Once they are out in the hallway, it gets easier to drag Grantaire behind him as the boy goes all but limp in his grip.  They walk down the hallway and duck under a stairwell before Combeferre turns around to assess the damage.

Grantaire collapses forward and tries to muffle sobs into the other student’s shirt.  His chest rises and falls rapidly as moisture soaks into Combefere’s shirt; he’s almost to hyperventilating.

“Hey, hey, Grantaire?  Look at me,” Combeferre says.  His voice is gentle as he softly rubs circles into his friend’s back.  “You need to breathe.  Just take some deep breaths for me, alright?”

Air rushes into Grantaire’s lungs in massive gulps as he tries to stop the tears that are running down his face.

“It’s fine,” he gasps.  “I’m j-just b-being stupid…”

“No, you aren’t.  They attacked you and you have every right to be upset.”  Combeferre sighs and shakes his head.  “People like that will make up whatever lies they can to get to you, it doesn’t mean anything.”

Grantaire goes numb and he feels the air rush out of his mouth again.   _Calm down, you need to calm down_ , he tells himself.

“Combeferre, I-” He pauses.  

What will this mean for him?  How will Combeferre react?  Grantaire can’t lose his only friend, he doesn’t know what that will do to him, doesn’t want to think about it.  No, he can’t do this, not right now.

Combeferre raises his brow expectantly and tries for a smile; it feels plastic and fake on his face.  

“I- You’re… Thanks,” Grantaire says.  “Thanks for everything.”

“It’s what friends do.” Combeferre shrugs and places a tentative hand on Grantaire’s shoulder.  “Let’s hide out here for the rest of the period, okay?”

“Sure.”  Another weak grin leaks into the other boy’s expression and he shakes a few curls out of his eyes.  

“And you’re okay to go to your next class?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire whispers.  “Yeah, it’s in thirty minutes and I have art anyway.  Mlle. Lefaive will leave me alone.”

“If you think so.”  Combeferre’s voice isn’t doubtful though, he says the words with the same sincere trust that he approaches all of his friend’s decisions with.  “You sure you’re okay?”

A bitter laugh escapes Grantaire’s mouth before he can stop it.  Combeferre looks uncertain now, but Grantaire waves away his expression.  

“I’m fine.  I’m always fine,” he sighs.

They stay beneath the stairwell in silence until the bell rings and Combeferre heads off to biology with an apologetic grin.  Grantaire waits until the pounding footsteps above him die out before emerging.  He makes his way to the art room quickly, making sure to keep his head down on the way there.

The rest of the day passes without incident as Grantaire does what he does best.  He has become a chameleon over the years and being more or less invisible tends to work in his favour.  Eating lunch with Combeferre outside beneath a large oak tree is a tradition that he’s missed over the summer.  His next two classes, chemistry and calculus are as boring as the rest of the first-day courses.  Papers for parents to sign and rules about what not to do in the teachers’ spaces are passed around the room.  Grantaire spends most of this time cycling between dozing and staring out the window.  

When the bell rings to signal the end of the day, he takes his time extracting himself from the desk.  The hallway is almost empty as Grantaire steps out of the classroom.  He breathes a sigh of relief upon seeing that the area around his locker is deserted.  After he puts his books into his backpack and swings it over his shoulder, he heads out the side doors.  It’s the best way to avoid the congregation of students who linger out front, waiting for their parents and friends to drive them home.  

The air has grown cold throughout the day as the overcast sky blots out the sun.  Grantaire stuffs his hands in his pockets and allows himself a single envious glance toward the students who are piling into warm and comfortable cars.  Not wanting to be seen staring, he turns his attention to the cracked and crumbling sidewalk in front of him.  It’s a long walk home and Grantaire feels moisture in the air, a sure sign that it is going to rain soon.  If he wants to make it to his house in a relatively dry state, he needs to hurry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hoped you enjoyed the first chapter, if you have any suggestions or comments, feel free to leave them below. They are always appreciated. :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **************************IMPORTANT***************************  
> Content warning for panic attacks in this chapter.

The next day, Grantaire spends ten minutes trying to talk himself into getting out of bed.  He hits snooze on his alarm four times before finally rolling over until his feet brush the floor.  Sighing, he trudges over to his wardrobe and pulls on a t-shirt and some pants before considering himself in the mirror.  

Grantaire immediately regrets the unusual action as he takes in the purple smudges under his eyes and his wild hair.  He looks awful.  What else is new?  Deciding that there is no point in trying to tame the cloud of frizz surrounding his face, Grantaire turns away from his reflection.

He drags himself downstairs and is indescribably grateful when his mother doesn’t mention the change in attitude.  They didn’t speak much last night: she left him alone when he mumbled “it was fine” after she asked how his day was.  

Grantaire doesn’t know what he expects when he arrives at school, but everything occurs just as it had every year before.  A few shoves from some thugs on the football team, a group of girls who laugh and roll their eyes as he walks past; the usual.  Combeferre is waiting by Grantaire’s locker, a tentative smile on his face.  When Grantaire grins back at him, he can see the tension leave his friend’s body.  Of course Combeferre would be concerned after yesterday’s events.  

“Hey, there.”  He shifts away from Grantaire’s locker, allowing the other student to latch onto his lock.

“Hey, yourself,” comes the response.

“So… are you-”

“I swear to god,” Grantaire says as he rolls his eyes, “if you ask me whether I’m okay again, I will remind Mme. Dupont about that book you still have.”

At the mention of the school’s librarian, Combeferre’s eyes go wide.  “You wouldn’t.”

“That’s, what?  Two year’s worth of library fines?  How much do you think that would cost?”

“You’re the worst kind of evil,” Combeferre shoves Grantaire’s shoulder but the left side of his mouth is twitching into a lopsided smile.

“I know.”

With that, Grantaire slams his locker shut and the boys head off to study hall, still exchanging teasing words.  The day passes by uneventfully until third period rolls around.  His chemistry class is just getting settled and groans echo around the room as the teacher gestures to a lengthy note messily scrawled across multiple boards.

“Write,” M. Boismier says, regarding the attendance sheet that sits on the desk in front of him with disdain.  

Everyone turns as a loud knock sounds at the door.

“What do you want?” the teacher barks and a few students exchange knowing glances at this.  Boismier is not exactly known around the school for his cuddly disposition.

“There was an error with regards to my schedule, I’m in your class now…” Enjolras trails off, looking around the classroom uncertainly.  As he scans the room, his eyes ghost over Grantaire and the other boy is not quite sure how to feel about this.  Relief mixes in his stomach with an odd, uneasy feeling that he’d rather not spend time trying to identify.

M. Boismier grunts and waves a hand, considering the transfer paper that the student hands him for a few seconds before tossing it in the garbage.  “All of the lab partners are taken, you’ll need to set up a group of three-”

His hand flies out to stop Enjolras as the boy begins toward the back of the class.  

“Make sure you pick a group that you’ll _actually_ do some work with.”

“Yes, sir,” Enjolras nods his head respectfully and continues his path to sit with a few teammates from the football team.  

Grantaire grins wryly as the thinks that it must not have occurred to Enjolras that he is allowed to have friends outside of his sports-related affiliations.  Class ends and Grantaire isn’t sure what he was expecting, but there isn’t any grand confrontation or even acknowledgement of each other’s presence in the room.  He stops before exiting and asks the teacher a quick question about a portion of the note that he didn’t understand.  By the time he leaves the room, the hallways are void of students, save for a few stragglers who are lingering by their lockers.

He heads down the hall toward his calculus classroom, trying to ignore the queasy pit in his stomach.  Only a few steps away from the chemistry room, Grantaire feels a hand on his shoulder.  He tenses and turns, only to find himself face-to-face with Enjolras.

“Don’t touch me,” flies out of Grantaire’s mouth before he has time to even process the words.   _Where did that come from?_

Enjolras pulls his hand back quickly, retracting it as though he was burned.  “I simply wanted to-”

“Just leave me alone,” Grantaire interrupts, turning to walk away.  He can already feel his hands begin to tremble and clenches them into fists.  The bite of his jagged nails into the fleshy meat of his palms grounds him.  

“Hey, hear me out.”  Enjolras grabs at the other boy’s shoulder again, hesitating when he sees the venomous look Grantaire send him.

“Get the fuck away from me.  I don’t owe you anything and I sure as hell don’t have to listen to you justify yourself, pretty boy.”

“What did you call me?”  Eyes flashing dangerously, Enjolras ignores Grantaire’s request and latches onto the collar of his shirt with more force.  His hand twists and pulls Grantaire up onto his toes so that he’s almost level with Enjolras.  

Grantaire’s eyes go wide and he feels moisture gather in his tear ducts.  

_Get a grip, you aren’t going to cry in front of him._

He doesn’t know if he’s going to have much of a choice.  Fear is electric, running through his body, a current that has no where to go.  It escalates as Enjolras spits angry words at Grantaire, but he doesn’t know what’s being said, the language isn’t registering in his brain.  Everything seems heightened and he can’t concentrate, only knows that he needs to get out of this situation.

They are only inches away and Grantaire can feel his lungs tighten as panic grips them.  Breath coming in pants, he tries to pry Enjolras’ hands from his shirt.  The attempt is far from successful; his fingers are shaking too badly to get a hold on anything.  Enjolras must realize this because lets go of Grantaire and pushes himself away, swearing quietly.  

Suddenly, Grantaire finds himself on the floor, back against a locker.  His head is swimming and breathing is becoming more difficult by the minute.   _No, not here, this is not happening here._ He vaguely registers someone beside him and a hand hovering over his chest.  Everything is too much, too loud, too close.  He closes his eyes.  Wills the feelings to disappear.  It’s not working.  It’s not working and he needs to leave but he can’t stand up and he just wants to leave, it’s too much.

“I- I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe,” Grantaire wheezes shaking his head frantically as tears begin to well up.  His hands are still trembling and reach up to claw at his shirt, he needs air, he needs-

“Shit, okay, you’re talking, that means you’re breathing, just…  um… fuck I don’t know what to do,” Enjolras’ voice comes from somewhere above him, desperation clinging to each syllable.

Grantaire closes his eyes, trying to pull himself away from the hallway, from the boy leaning over him.  He can’t quite escape the panic, though, constantly pulled back by Enjolras’ babbling and the little voice in his head that is screaming, _not here, please, I can’t do this here, not in front of him._

“Grantaire?  Are you having an asthma attack?  Do you... have an inhaler?”  Enjolras starts patting Grantaire’s pockets, presumably looking for the non-existent device.  “Do asthmatic people use inhalers?  Do you have an Epipen…?  Oh god.”

The chattering only serves to constrict Grantaire’s throat more.  Enjolras is still there, he’s still there and he’s touching him and Grantaire just wants it to stop why won’t it stop _why won’t it stop I want it to stop please please please please please make it stop leave oh god I can’t breathe I still can’t breathe help me nobody is going to help me I can’t breathe…_

Grantaire’s train of thought dissolves into meaningless sounds and he hears a sob rip from his chest.  Enjolras isn’t talking anymore, maybe he left?  The smaller boy has had a lot of panic attacks before and he knows that they are far from pretty.  Maybe he scared Enjolras away?

The newfound silence is deafening when even the voices in Grantaire’s head fade as he focuses on counting.   _One, two, three, four: inhale.  Hold.  Hold.  Hold.  Exhale: one, two, three, four._

The invisible force that is crushing his chest begins to relax somewhat and he vaguely feels Enjolras’ hand hovering just over his shoulder, barely touching it.  He ignores the phantom feeling.   _One, two, three, four: inhale.  Hold.  Hold.  Hold.  Exhale: one, two, three, four._

Grantaire’s heart and breathing rates are slowing.  He continues concentrating on calming down, the monotonous counting comforting and familiar.  Controlling the rise and fall of his chest, pushing down the panic until he can pretend that it isn’t there at all, these things come naturally to him.  Panic attacks don’t happen too frequently, but when they do, Grantaire knows tricks that help him.  

Sometimes he wakes up at night with a punishing weight on top of his lungs.  He will flounder, struggle to grasp reality before he remembers to be quiet.  His mother doesn’t need to deal with his weaknesses, she has enough to worry about.  In the silence of his room, he is usually able to deal with the situation within a few minutes.  Other times, when he sees stacks of unpaid bills on the table, or finds the fridge empty and grocery day a long time away, calming down is more difficult.  He has to concentrate on getting himself to the closest room, locking the door, making sure his mom won’t find him.  He bites on the sleeve of his sweater, or screams into a pillow if it’s particularly bad and there’s one handy.  These moments always come during the worst of times and immobilize him when he should be concentrating on fixing things.  

Grantaire hates it, feeling helpless, and the worst thing is that he doesn’t know how to stop the panic attacks.  They come and go with little warning and he’s never really sure what will set them off.  He’s learned to control them, though.  The monotonous counting provides units in which to measure breaths that are more tangible than a simple “in” and “out.”  He learned about that tactic about three years ago.  Letting his thought slip away, Grantaire feels his body relax and hear Enjolras beginning to worry aloud again.

_Grantaire walks out of the classroom, struggling to control the shaking of his hands.  He bites the inside of his cheek, moving his teeth around the scars that are starting to form there.  The night before, Grantaire worked late into the night and didn’t have time to complete homework.  Because of this, his math teacher decided that today was the best time to inform the student of the fact that he is destined to be failure who will never make anything substantial or successful out of his life._

_Hearing that which he already knows be vocalized and confirmed is more difficult to face than he thought it might be.  He spends the rest of the day in a slump, barely absorbing Combeferre’s words as the other boy chats at him during lunch.  Nothing is mentioned about Grantaire’s unusual mood, so he assumes that Combeferre doesn’t care about his petty issues._

_Later, Grantaire walks home alone and finds his house empty.  He doesn’t even make it halfway up the stairs before the thoughts that he had been suppressing all day catch up to him.  The attack is worse than usual and he is bombarded by a litany of words, careening through his head.  Useless.  Worthless.  Failure.  Unlovable.  Impossible.  Ugly.  Hideous.  Worthless.  It’s a battle he cannot win; invisible foes assault his worth, the pitiful thing that it is.  Voices of different people mix and blend into a sea of self-loathing and Grantaire can’t escape._

_He vaguely recognizes loud pounding that sounds like it is coming from somewhere down the hall, but the voices in his head quickly down it out, volume increasing as each second passes._

_Suddenly, there’s a presence next to him and Grantaire flinches away._

_“R, can I touch you?” says the person._

_Their voice sounds incredibly familiar and Grantaire latches onto it, trying to use it as a lifeline, let it guide him so that he can pull himself out of his own mind.  The person asks the questions again.  Perhaps it’s his mother?  She shouldn’t be home yet, so it can’t be her.  No.  The voice is too masculine anyway.  A third inquiry floats from the real world into his head, mingling with these thoughts, and Grantaire struggles to stop it from slipping away._

_He nods tentatively as soon as the question is understood and as soon as he makes this motion, everything snaps into place.  It’s as if he has just surfaced from beneath an icy ocean, pounding on the ice until he has found an opening.  Oxygen flows into his lungs and he abruptly realizes how much he is shaking as another set of hands envelopes his.  Grantaire is trembling and crying on the staircase, curled in another person’s arms.  They place Grantaire’s arms on their chest, telling the boy to mimic their breathing, mention that he’s hyperventilating._

_As Grantaire matches each inhale and exhale to the other person’s, they make sure he keeps pace by counting._ One, two, three, four: inhale.  Hold.  Hold.  Hold.  Exhale: one, two, three, four.   _Grantaire complies and the air that fills his lungs is more satisfying.  He is still light-headed, but fairly grounded._

_Following the simple counting works surprisingly well, and Grantaire barely has time to wonder how the stranger knows this trick before he remembers that his mother will be home soon.  Looking up, he starts as he sees the person looking down at him, concern written all over their face._

_Combeferre smiles hesitantly, the expression morphing into confusion as Grantaire quickly jerks away from his touch._

_“You, uh… You forgot to get your history textbook back from me, so I thought that I’d… bring it over.” Combeferre doesn’t seem to know what to do, now that they boys are sitting, facing each other in the stairwell._

_“Thanks,” Grantaire nods toward where the book is sitting four steps below him._

_“I should…”_

_“How did you…”_

_The boys start talking at the same time, eager to fill the silence that is steadily becoming more awkward.  Combeferre gestures to signal that Grantaire should continue._

_“How did you get in?”_

_“Window.”  Combeferre isn’t meeting his eyes, looking slightly to the right of his head._

_“You broke in?” exclaims Grantaire, not trying to hide the surprise in his tone._

_Combeferre stares at his hands, looking like he’d rather not respond.  “You were screaming.  I thought someone was attacking you… or something.”_

_“Thanks, I guess.”_

_“You’re welcome.”_

_“Are you…?”_

_“I’m fine,” Grantaire says curtly._

_“Clearly,” Combeferre replies with a tentative grin that fades when it is not returned._

_“I think you should probably leave.”_

_“Yeah, I’ll just… go,” finishing lamely, Combeferre pickings himself up and starts toward the door._

_Grantaire hears voices down the hall a few minutes after the other boy disappears from sight.  A door closing.  Footsteps approaching._

_“He seems very nice,” his mother says casually as she comes around the corner._

_Grantaire grunts noncommittally._

_His mom smiles at this.  “He’s also very cute.”_

_Lips twitching upward, Grantaire leans forward to embrace the woman.  “He_ does _look great in glasses.”_

_“So do you, honey,” she pulls back a little to brush a stray curl away from his face and straighten his thick, black frames._

_“He’s straight,” he mumbles into her shoulder as he leans into it again._

_“Have you asked him?” his mother sounds careful, nervous._

_“No, mom.  That isn’t the kind of thing people talk about, I can’t ask him something like that.  Besides, I don’t even know him.  He’s just some kid in my history class.”_

_“Do you know his name?”_

_“Combeferre,” Grantaire says without hesitation._

_“Well there you go, you know enough to start a conversation,” she says, chuckling softly when her son rolls his eyes.  “Who knows, maybe he’s looking for a friend.”_

_A bitter laugh falls from Grantaire’s mouth before he can stop it.  “And what happens when he finds out that I have a crush on him?”_

_“I don’t know,” she says, beginning to ascend the stairs, “you’ve been talking about him for a week, Cameron.  Don’t give me that look, there can’t be that many cute boys in your history class.  Why don’t you go up to him tomorrow, give him a chance to prove that he can be a good guy.  If he isn’t, you can blame me for coercing you into trying to become friends with a horrible person.”_

_“Whatever,” Grantaire mumbles, hauling himself to his feet and walking away from the conversation.  Even though his response is dismissive, they both know that he will take his mother’s advice._

_The next day, the first thing Grantaire says to Combeferre is_ “nice glasses.”   _Neither of them discuss the panic attack, or the fact that Combeferre broke into Grantaire’s house regardless of their status as almost absolute strangers.  A few weeks later, they become inseparable.  That was the only time Combeferre had ever been to Grantaire’s house, and the last.  It was also the only time that Grantaire had let someone see him so vulnerable.  Until now._

“Grantaire?”  Enjolras’ voice breaks through into the boy’s stupor, snapping him back to where he is lying on the floor against a locker.  The blonde student’s hands are flitting around nervously, not quite touching Grantaire; he seems nervous about getting too close.  Grantaire’s head is whirling and he can’t quite latch on to concrete thought.

“Are you okay?  Is it over?” Enjolras sounds just as uneasy as the other boy feels.  

Raising a shaking hand to his face, Grantaire closes his eyes, scrubbing at them, trying to collect himself.  His cheeks are damp and he winces.   _Fuck._

“Yeah, I’m fine.”  Grantaire tests his voice, cringing a little when it comes out gravelly and raw.  

“What the hell was that?”  Enjolras asks, an accusatory tone colouring his words.  Because, right, how dare Grantaire make him uncomfortable.

“Panic attack,” he mumbles.

“Why did it happen?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Enjolras frowns at this.  “Why did it happen?” he asks again, insistent.

Grantaire groans as he sits up.  He feels exhausted.  “Take a wild guess,” he mumbles.

Eyes growing wide, Enjolras’ curls bounce as he shakes his head.  “It wasn’t…. I couldn’t have… I didn’t mean…”  He pauses, eyes going hard, voice taking on a haughty tone that Grantaire is all too familiar with.  “You must be mistaken.”

A politician’s answer, neither confirming or denying guilt, simply nudging it elsewhere.  Grantaire fights the urge to verbalize the similarity that the boy bears to his father right now.  The senator would be proud.

“Yes, I must be,” Grantaire deadpans, not feeling even a little bit in the mood for this conversation.  He just wants to curl up in a corner somewhere and sleep.  “Because,” he continues, “I’m notorious for breaking down in the middle of hallways for shits and giggles.”

Enjolras looks dangerous now, eyes flashing, lips pressed together into a tight line.  “I don’t like what you’re insinuating.”

“Oh, there’s no insinuating,” Grantaire raises his voice when he says the last word, mocking the other boy’s tone, “but if you want to ignore the fact that I’m an actual human being with actual feelings that have the capacity to be affected by pretty little clones like you, then go right ahead.”

A few seconds pass as Enjolras visibly tries to calm himself down, hands clenching into fists.  Grantaire retreats as far toward the locker as he is physically capable.  The blonde boy must notice this because some of the fight falls from his posture and he back away.  

“I didn’t mean-”

“It doesn’t fucking matter whether you meant anything you said, that doesn’t change the effect it has.”  Grantaire is getting louder with each word he speaks.  “I’m a person whether you like it or not, even if I’m nothing.”

This makes Enjolras flinch, but the icy look in his eyes remains.  His posture changes minutely, defensive in his stance.  “So, what?  Do you want me to apologize?  Well you aren’t getting that.  You aren’t worth it, this has all been a waste of my time.”

“You’re so fucking full of it, you-”

Grantaire and Enjolras are inches apart now, tense and yelling loudly.  The sound of heels clicking, echoing down the hall, silences Grantaire mid-sentence.  The boys turn at the same time as Mrs. Thenardier rounds the corner.  

“Hello, boys.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed the update, another should be coming soon. It all depends on how much time I have to write with exams coming up.  
> A giant thanks to gaymercutio, valyrianking, and lesmisgayrables for helping me sort through this chapter. It was the most difficult thing I've had to write so far and all the help is appreciated.  
> As always, I wouldn't have the will-power to write any of this without the encouragement of the lovely enjolgay.  
> Feel free to leave comments and criticism down below, they are always welcome. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to lesmisgayrables and ladyprouvaire for editing this chapter for me. It's just a wee little filler, the following chapters should come soon because I'll have time to write them now that summer's here. Sorry for the long wait, exam time got busier than I thought it would. Anyway, enjoy. :)

“Off the floor.  Now.”  Thenardier says, not sounding the slightest bit pleased.  “I’ve had two complaints from teachers in this hallway about shouting.  I’m sure you’re aware of our strict policy against fighting.”

“We were just…” Enjolras trails off, unsure about how to explain what they are doing.  It’s a difficult situation to clarify: Grantaire slumped against the lockers, looking disheveled, and Enjolras looming over him.  Meanwhile, Grantaire’s mouth is gaping open; the other boy has sweet-talked his way out of many more tedious situations than this.  Words are Enjolras’ weapon of choice, and a strong one at that.

As the silence drags on, Thenardier raises one manicured eyebrow and her lips quirk upward.  “Oh, were you?  How interesting, Alex.  Care to elaborate?”

Halfway through the sentence, she had started walking away from the boys, obviously expecting them to follow.  They scramble off the floor and quickly catch up, staying just behind her.

“We… uh, we were just… talking.  Then I… erm…”

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Grantaire mutters, rolling his eyes.  “We were arguing, which is probably why the teachers complained, and then I started to feel light-headed and needed to sit down.”

Enjolras shoots him a look behind their Vice Principal’s back, but Grantaire makes a point of looking away and ignoring it.

“Thank you, Cameron.  Your honesty is appreciated.”  Thenardier doesn’t sound quite convinced that he’s telling the truth, but doesn’t continue questioning him either.  

They turn down the main hall and Grantaire starts slowing his steps.  He doesn’t like being so close to Enjolras, and hopes that the other boy will keep a steady gait.  Apparently the universe hates him because Enjolras almost immediately matches his pace.

"Are you okay?"  Enjolras asks quietly, as soon as they are out of earshot.

"Don’t talk to me."

Enjolras doesn’t seem quite sure what to do with Grantaire’s curt reply, mouth working around unspoken words before he nods.

"Okay."

Grantaire shoves his hands in his pockets, hunching his shoulders and refusing to look at the other boy.  He is leaning away from Enjolras, the space making him feel a little less uncomfortable.  It’s not much but he’ll take what he can get.

They walk the rest of the way without talking and Grantaire only glances over once.  Their eyes meet and he thinks that he sees guilt flicker across Enjolras’ face before it is gone, replaced by some neutral, sneering emotion.  Of course their encounter meant nothing; Grantaire is the freak and Enjolras barely registers his existence.  That’s how the world works and pretending otherwise won’t change anything.  

Tension is palpable in the air as Thenardier guides the boys toward two seats that are placed just outside her office.  Enjolras opens his mouth as soon as she disappears into the room, closing the door behind her.

"I’m sorry," he says, as though that means anything.

"Are you?" Grantaire replies slowly, making sure every sound is steady.  Saying those two, short words is more difficult than he’d like to admit.

"Yes." Enjolras smoothes down a small curl that had escaped his perfectly gelled hair.  He already looks smug and Grantaire is torn between wanting to punch him and needing to get as far away from him as possible.  "About what I said…"

"…And this is the part where I tell you to fuck off."

"I can’t go anywhere, we’re both stuck here," Enjolras says, narrowing his eyes.

"Oh, okay, how do I explain this to you?" Grantaire’s tone takes on a mocking lilt and he finds that he falls easily into sarcastic defense.  As soon as the words are spoken, it’s almost as though a shield has been placed in front of him.  Feeling less vulnerable, a spark of confidence igniting, he continues, "See, there’s such thing as a figure of speech.  So when I tell you to fuck off, I’m really saying that I don’t give a flying fuck about what you have to say."

"I’m _trying_ to apologize.”  Enjolras sounds annoyed.  Good.  

"Don’t strain yourself."

"Would you just listen to me?"

"No," Grantaire says lightly, "But if talking will make you feel better, then, by all means, go ahead."

"You’re insufferable," the other boy spits, anger barely in control.

"You can come in now, boys," Mme Thenardier appears in the doorway, effectively cutting off the argument.  She turns back and walks toward her desk, expecting the pair to follow into her office.

They emerge about ten minutes later after expanding on the half-lie Grantaire had told back in the hall.  Thenardier hands them both slips of paper that will allow them to get back into class.

“And head straight there,” she warns, giving them a knowing look over her glasses.  

Mumbling their agreement, the boys take their leave, glad to be out from under her scrutinizing gaze.  As soon as they are in the hallway again, Enjolras reaches for Grantaire, before thinking better of it.  He settles on clearing his throat and stopping in front of the other boy.

“Listen,” Enjolras runs a hand through his blonde curls, shaking them to fall loosely around his face.  Grantaire averts his eyes and stares at the floor; it’s really quite ugly, yellow and brown splotches over a creamy colour that probably used to be white at some point in time.  “You can’t tell anyone about this.  I- I have a reputation to uphold and I’m sorry that you went through whatever that was upstairs, but I can’t have people thinking that I actually-”

“I don’t need this,” Grantaire says, briefly glancing up in time to see shock flicker across Enjolras’ face.  

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t need your charity, or apologies, or… whatever the fuck this is supposed to be.”  Closing his eyes, Grantaire tries to steady his breath and focuses on stilling the tremor in his hands.  “I just… You don’t like me, I get it.  We’re different people, it’s to be expected.  Hell, different doesn’t begin to cover it.  You come from trust funds and Sports Illustrated and I’m… I’m nothing.”

“Grantaire, I didn’t mean-”

“What?  You didn’t mean to call me a f-faggot?”   _Shit, R, come on, you can do this_.  

“No, yes, I mean, I shouldn’t have said it.  It was a spur of the moment thing and I….”  Enjolras trails off and inclines his head, as if he expects Grantaire to declare a moment of forgiveness.  Like hell that’s going to happen.

“Your pity doesn’t mean anything to me.  Save it.”  

Enjolras’ mouth works for a few seconds before he says anything; it’s an odd thing to watch, speech always comes so easily to him.  It’s obvious from the tension in his jawline that he’s barely containing the rage that is brimming just beneath the surface of his calm demeanour.  He isn’t used to being interrupted and probably never been questioned like this.

_Well, there’s a first time for everything._

Enjolras seems to compose himself because he finally speaks again, irritation filtering through into his tone.  “Will you let me finish?  I’m trying to express my-”

“Seriously, don’t strain yourself.”  Grantaire cuts the other boy off again and gestures around at the empy halls, a strange satisfaction bubbling in his chest as Enjolras glowers.  “We’re alone now, no need to put on a show.”

“Well if you’re going to be an ungrateful ass about it,” Enjolras says, eyes narrowing, “then I’m not going to waste my breath.”

Grantaire carefully shapes his expression into a mocking grin and takes a sweeping bow.  “I beg your pardon for not bestowing my utmost thanks that you decided to be a decent fucking human being for once in your life.”

Enjolras scowls, his posture large and imposing.  “I was _trying_ to do you a favour but apparently you’re too stupid to realize that.  Have you ever heard of accepting apologies with grace?”

Grantaire snorts, “ _that_ was supposed to be an apology.  Okay.”  The last word is exaggerated, sarcasm dripping from each syllable; Enjolras’ upper lip twitches.

“Of course not.  I shouldn’t expect anything else from a lowlife.”  Enjolras spits, spinning on his heel and stalking away from the other boy.

As Grantaire makes his way to Calculus, he has to stop a few times to calm down.  His hands are shaking and his breath trembles past his lips.  Speaking to Enjolras like that was exhilarating.  Despite the other boy’s final dig at him, for the first time, Grantaire had felt powerful at school; a sentiment that he was not familiar with in the slightest.   Enjolras walked away knowing he was wrong and the liberating feeling this leaves Grantaire with is priceless.   

Thirty minutes into a boring lecture about reviewing the principles of basic factoring, Grantaire still hasn’t figured out where the fight in him came from.  Ten minutes to the bell, he decides that he doesn’t care. Grandiose indifference easily deflected the uncomfortable situation, and maybe that’s what Grantaire needs.  He isn’t one to attack; a shield, on the other hand, could become very useful.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

After that first encounter with Enjolras, the rest of the semester continues without any other altercations.  The boys avoid each other; any communication is as limited as possible.  It’s strange for Grantaire now that he doesn’t have to worry about Enjolras showing up to make his life difficult.  There is a certain unspoken understanding that developed that day, dictating that they are not acknowledging each other.  Grantaire is not complaining about the lack of interactions as far as Enjolras is concerned, but the absence of the boy’s constant, imposing presence in his life is a little disconcerting.

It’s not like Grantaire’s life has suddenly become problem-free now, though.  Enjolras was never the only person who enjoyed pushing him around.  Bahorel and Bossuet, along with a few other football players, still revel in the time they spend making Grantaire’s life miserable.  The rest of first semester passes by in a blur, paper airplanes are thrown at him in biology, people go out of their way to trip him in the hallway, and, as usual, his only solace is found during his time spent with Combeferre in their little corner of the library.  Everything generally goes back to normal, with the exception of a few occasions when his classmates decide to get creative.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this update, as I said, more should be coming soon. This is all the build-up to the first major plot-point, so things should be getting more interesting in a few chapters. As always, comments and criticism is always appreciated. :)
> 
> Also, I'm doing live-streams that you guys can join in on while I'm writing to provide input regarding what's happening, and generally watch the fic progress before I post it. Check canadiancosette.tumblr.com/tagged/fanfictionlive periodically if you'd like to join me; I will make a post every time I continue writing something. :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ******Content Warning: brief description of blood due to a broken nose******
> 
> Thank you to ladyprouvaire for editing this chapter for me, and to bridgetdanielle and enjolgay for encouraging me during the writing livestreams, as well as all of the anonymous readers. :)

**_Late September_ **

Grantaire finds himself cornered at his locker, three boys surrounding him.  He vaguely recognizes one of them, a guy who is perpetually clad in a jersey emblazoned with the name “Brujon.”  They don’t waste any time crowding Grantaire against the cold metal, and reaching around him to stop the boy from closing his locker.

“Don’t you have a class to get to?” one of the guys asks, looming closer and towering at least five inches over Grantaire’s head.  

“I just need to get my books and…”  Grantaire tries to get to his locker again, he just wants his sketchbook, but a burly hulk of a kid blocks his access.

“Leave.”  Brujon snarls, bodily shoving him farther down the hallway.

“You can’t just-”

“I’m sorry,” the football player turns to Grantaire, tongue running beneath his lower lip, “didn’t I tell you to get lost?"

“I need my books though,” Grantaire whispers, talking to the floor more than any of the people standing in front of him.  

“Yeah, so do we.  I lost my bio notes and thought I’d borrow some.”

“You don’t even take notes in class.”

A jock breaks from the group, stepping menacingly toward Grantaire.  “And what’s it to you?”

“Why are you still here, freak?” Brujon crosses his arms over his chest and Grantaire feels a shiver start to work it’s way up his back from an uneasy pit that is growing in his stomach.  

“I-”  And that’s when Grantaire backs off, mentally cursing himself for being such a coward, for not fighting back; but there is really nothing he can do.  There are three of them and one of him.  It’s not like he poses much of a threat anyway, with his wiry frame, standing just over five feet.

He avoids his locker for the rest of the day, not wanting to see what damage he has to deal with.  As it turns out, Grantaire finds out anyway when he takes a trip to the washroom during lunch.  His books are strewn all over the floor, swollen with liquid and reeking.  He gags, not daring to pick them up, and suspects that the yellowish tinge soaking into the paper is not just from the dirty floor.  Shoving them into a stall with the toes of his sneaker-clad feet, Grantaire sighs.  The moment of calm resignation is punctuated by sheer panic as a bolt of realization runs through him.

He never got his sketchbook.

Shit.  Shit, shit, shit.  All of his projects are in there: hours of his time spent on the only subject he really loves.

Grantaire shuffles through the papers with his feet, but most of them are torn and stuck together, stopping him from being able to differentiate between them.  

Bolting out of the bathroom, he ignores the strange looks sent his way by a few juniors who are lingering across the hall.  When he reaches his locker, Grantaire finds the lock securely fastened, and spends at least five minutes trying to pry it open.  His shaking fingers jarr the lockface around past the numbers he is aiming for and, when he finally gets it open, it doesn’t look much better.  There are loose papers haphazardly tossed around, and something scrawled in black ink along the inside of his locker.  

Grantaire doesn’t take the time to read the message that was left for him, however; his vision zeros in on the edge of textured black material poking out from a flurry of chemistry diagrams.  He’s pretty sure his heart stops as he gingerly picks up the book and opens it.  Relief floods his chest, warm and grounding, when he sees the unmarred pages.  Grantaire carefully tucks the sketchbook under his arm and heads toward the library, where Combeferre is probably already waiting for him.  He’ll figure out what to do with the missing notes later on.  Maybe he’ll be able to convince someone to let him borrow theirs.  No, he’s better off making up an excuse for his teachers and copying them down again from scratch.  Whatever he’s going to do, Grantaire will deal with it tomorrow.  

 

**_October_ **

Combeferre is sick.  Actually, Combeferre has been sick for the past four days and Grantaire can’t remember how he survived before they became friends.  Without the other boy’s comforting presence, school seems so much more daunting than usual.  Grantaire spends his lunch period huddled in the library like he normally does, nose in a new book that the librarian recommended to him, but he can’t seem to unwind, muscles stiff and tensed.  Approaching footsteps cause him to shrink back into the bookshelf, loud voices make him jump, and he wonders whether he’d be better off just locking himself inside a bathroom stall to find some peace.

Grantaire is just about to get up, return his novel, and find himself a clean toilet seat when a shadow appears over him.  He takes a deep breath and looks up, only to find Courfeyrac frowning down at him.  

“Where’s your friend?”  the boy asks, shifting on his feet and readjusting his backpack.  He looks uneasy,  which is strange because Courfeyrac is generally one of the most well-loved people at school, welcome wherever he goes.

“Combeferre?  He’s sick… been sick all week, actually.  Why?”  Grantaire stands up slowly, eyeing Courfeyrac suspiciously.

The other boy just shrugs, “I haven’t seen him around and needed to borrow his history notes.  If you talk to him, let him know, yeah?”

Before Grantaire has the chance to reply, Courfeyrac ducks around the bookshelf beside him, and disappears from site.   _That was strange._

Grantaire has exactly three seconds to ponder the off-putting encounter, and another four to gather his thoughts before Brujon appears around the corner with Bossuet trailing behind him.  

“You giving Courf a hard time?”  Bossuet tilts his head toward the room’s exit, where Courfeyrac presumably walked out moments before his friends appears in front of Grantaire.

“No.  He just wanted to know where Combeferre is.”

“Did he?”  Brujon asks, getting uncomfortably close to Grantaire.  “So your little bodyguard isn’t here?”

“My- What?”  Grantaire stumbles on the phrase, trying to figure out what it could possibly mean.

“I don’t know what it is about him,” Brujon plucks Grantaire’s book from his hands and starts leafing through it casually, “but the boy makes Courfeyrac soft.  Did you put him up to it?  Blackmail Courf to protect you?”

“Protect me?”

“You ain’t a goddamn parrot, I asked you a question.”

Grantaire’s eyes flick toward Bossuet who has remained quiet save for his greeting remark.  He looks vaguely uncomfortable with the direction in which conversation is proceeding, but isn’t doing anything to intervene.   _Of course he isn’t, they’re all the same; clones, every single one._

“I- I didn’t… I don’t know what’s going on with your friend but it has nothing to do with me.  Just leave me alone.”  Grantaire retreats toward the bookshelf behind him, feeling his hands start to tremble.  

“I think the little freak needs something to jog his memory, eh, Bossuet?”

At this, the boy in question leans forward a few inches, extending a hand toward his friend.  “Come on, Brujon, we’re wasting our time here.  Let’s dip; give the freak his book.”

Grantaire makes a move to take the novel back and hesitates once he sees Brujon’s face.  The boy has a wicked grin on his face that glints in the corners of his eyes.  Slowly, very slowly, he takes the book and bends the pages out from the middle, its spine cracking as the covers touch each other.  

“Oops,” Brujon murmurs as he begins to twist the pages in opposite directions, away from and toward his body.  The spine of the book rips slightly at the edges, more cardboard appearing as the cover tears.  The small novel looks even tinier in the large boy’s hands, and gives one more awful shredding sound before it comes apart.

Grantaire simply stands where he is, staring blankly at the papers that are now separated in Brujon’s two hands.  

“Take it, freak,” Brujon shoves the remains of the book at him, and turns to walk away.  Bossuet looks horrified for a split second before he composed his face into a sneer and follows his friend.

Shoving the torn pages into his backpack, Grantaire shuffles out of the library, feeling strangely empty and weightless.  When he returns the next day, he mumbles an excuse about dropping the book that had been destroyed by Brujon into a mud puddle.  The librarian is mildly perturbed by this development, but she quickly reaches into her desk and pulls out an expense slip.

“I expect you to return this on Monday with the applicable payment.”

“Okay,” Grantaire can’t quite bring himself to meet her eyes.  

“Are you sure you dropped it?  That isn’t like you, you’re usually so careful with your books.  If you want the copy for yourself, it would be much easier to purchase it…”

Grimacing, Grantaire looks up at this and, with barely disguised irritation, says, “I didn’t _steal_ it.  I’ll have the money for you next week.”

He snatches the slip of paper out of the woman’s hand and strides out of the library before she can respond.  A familiar sense of dread settles in his stomach when he sees how much the ruined novel will cost him.  Shoving the paper in his pocket, he slowly makes his way to his locker, chewing on the inside of his cheek.  Grantaire will have to find some way to get the money for this; there’s no way he’s telling his mother, she doesn’t need anything else to worry about.  Besides, it isn’t her fault, Grantaire is responsible for the fee and he has to deal with it.  

He returns to school on Monday with a sealed envelope that he hands to the librarian before classes begin.  Combeferre is sitting by his usual bookshelf, looking much healthier, but Grantaire ignores the confused look that is sent his way.  

At home, on his desk, an empty change jar sits, smashed, a few pennies scattered on the carpet alongside stray shards of glass.

**_November_ **

“Grantaire, did you have something to add to the lesson?”  M. Boismiersays loudly, effectively silencing the mumbles conversations that were taking place throughout the classroom.  

Grantaire’s head snaps up, “What?”

“‘Pardon, M. Boismier?  I’m so very sorry for interrupting your riveting lecture,’” the teacher mocks, looking anything but impressed; the silence is peppered with quiet laughter.

“Sorry,” Grantaire repeats, eyes traveling back to stare at initials carved into his desk.

M. Boismier sighs.  “Just please try to be less disruptive; this isn’t kindergarten, I shouldn't have to send you to the office for making distracting noises.”  With that, he turns back to the blackboard, seamlessly transitioning back to his explanation of the properties of ionic compounds.  

“Freak,” one of the boys behind Grantaire says softly, eliciting chuckles from his friends.  

The kid’s hand creeps forward along his desk again and Grantaire tries not to flinch as it jabs just above his ribs.  A few bursts of laughter erupt faintly behind him again and he grits his teeth.  As the prodding becomes more violent and his sides begin to sting, Grantaire lets out a small squeak, followed by another when a finger plunges into the fleshy mass of skin under his shoulder blade.

M. Boismier pivots around to face the class again, eyes locking onto Grantaire’s.  “In the hallway.  Come back when class is done, I want to chat with you.”

“But, sir-”

“Go.”  And Grantaire has no choice but to do as he’s told, there really isn’t any arguing with the man in front of him, who is growing more annoyed by the second.  

Before the door shuts behind him, he looks behind him to see the pleased looks that adorn the faces of his tormentors.  Of course, explaining his situation to M. Boismier after class does not yield a solution, as usual.  He’s told to “man up,” that “boys will be boys,” and is promptly dismissed after that.  

This game in chemistry class become a pattern after that day.  It’s all a competition to see who can make Grantaire embarrass himself first, and Grantaire has no chance of winning.  So much for the rigorous anti-bullying programs that his school has been awarded for.  Rolling his eyes at the plaques pronouncing the place a “Lighthouse School for Leadership in Equality and Inclusion” becomes a habit that is repeated each time he passes them.  This happens quite often as the trophy case is located right across from Grantaire’s locker.  The irony is not lost on him.

 

**_December_ **

Grantaire and Combeferre are sitting by Grantaire’s locker because the library is closed due to Provincial testing for the entire week.  They are sitting on either side of the open locker door, chatting aimlessly.  A stack of books rests on the top shelf, next to Grantaire’s textbooks.  Combeferre had to check them out since Grantaire’s experience a few months ago left him banned from borrowing books for the remainder of the semester.  

It’s Wednesday and Grantaire is honestly surprised that they haven’t been bothered now that they’re out in the open.  He is starting to think that perhaps hiding away in the library doesn’t stop them from singled out in the end.  Well, that probably isn’t much of a stretch; the bullies in their school have never really cared about location.  The room itself was probably enough to induce the power of suggestion.   Grantaire has to admit that it has begun to feel like a safety blanket, a place to escape to when he feels uncertain.  This week has been great so far, despite the unease that has plagued him.  On Monday his mom had surprised them with a small container, inside the two round modules sat clear little lenses.  The elation that bubbled up at the thought of leaving his glasses behind him has carried on through the past few days, and Grantaire feels happier than he has in a while.  

His train of thought quickly trails off track as a group of guys rounds the corner, Bahorel at the front, walking backward and talking animatedly with his friends.  A half burned-out cigarette dangles from his fingers.  As soon as he nears the edges of Combeferre’s feet, dangling out in front of him as he leans against the locker, Bahorel stops.  A wolfish grin works its way onto his face and he laughs loudly.

“Eh, Claquesous?  Tell you sister she doesn’t need to get our smokes for us anymore.  I found a couple of fags right here.”  He flicks the cigarette butt at Combeferre as he finishes the sentence, sweeping his arms out wide.

Combeferre calmly stands up and brushes the ash off of his sweater, quietly saying, “please don’t throw things at me, Bahorel.  Really, you’re better than that.”

“What are you going to do about it?”  In a span of about three seconds, Bahorel has closed the space between himself and the smaller boy, rolling his shoulders as he grins down at  Combeferre.  “Faggot,” he spits.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?”  Grantaire pushes off of the ground, wedging between his friend and Bahorel.

Combeferre looks distinctly uncomfortable, shuffling back toward the locker.  Bahorel looks amused, if anything.  

“Oh, what do we have here,” he laughs loudly with his friends; a few of them coo at Grantaire mockingly, “seems like the freak has finally grown a spine for his little boyfriend.  Well, what are you going to do about it?”

He shoves Grantaire, slamming the small student into the lockers behind him.  Combeferre moves away just in time, to avoid the impact, and the metal makes a loud, clanging sound.  A few of Bahorel’s friends steal nervous glances toward Thenardier’s office, just down the hall, but nobody moves, despite how much Bossuet looks like he would much rather be anywhere else.

“Get the fuck away from me,” Grantaire grits out as he steps forward and, steeling his frayed nerves, pushes Bahorel away from him.

The offensive was clearly not expected because Bahorel tumbles backward, shock plastered across his face.  Snickers break through Grantaire’s panic and he whips around to see the group of letterman-clad students amused at their friend’s situation.  

“Grantaire!” Combeferre shouts, but his friend doesn’t turn fast enough.

Head snapping backward, Grantaire first feels pain as he hits the lockers again before it explodes across his face.When he swallows, thick, warm blood runs down his throat, flooding to coat his tongue.  It feels like syrup with none of the sweetness, just an awful metal aftertaste that makes Grantaire want to vomit.  He can hear Bahorel saying something but he can’t focus on the words.  Out of the corner of his eye, another figure approaches and he quickly turns to face them, immediately regretting the action as his nose screams in protest.  

Courfeyrac appears in his field of vision, holding his hand out, palms facing Bahorel.

“Hey, man,” he’s saying, “he isn’t worth it, let’s get out of here, yeah?”

“This little shit needs to be taught a lesson; get the fuck out of my way,” Bahorel shoots back, fuming.  

He pushes Courfeyrac aside and fists a hand in Grantaire’s shirt, pulling the boy up to his eye-level.  Grantaire winces, groaning.  Everything hurts and he just wants Courfeyrac to stop protesting; everything will be over so much faster if he just lets it go.

Unfortunately, Grantaire’s inner thoughts are not picked up on by Courfeyrac, because he starts forward again, placing a tentative hand on Bahorel’s shoulder.

“Come on, you’re not thinking straight, we should get out of here.”

Bahorel shakes off his friend’s touch with more ferocity this time, growling, “I’m thinking just fine, I’m not the coward here, Courf; you have something to learn from this, too.”

Courfeyrac finally stumbles away, words failing him as he gapes at the enormous football player.  Suddenly, Bahorel is jerked backward, his grip on Grantaire loosening.

“Let him go,” Combeferre says, his voice sharp, an edge of anger clinging to the statement.

He pulls at Bahorel’s shoulder again, spinning the student around to face him.  “He needs medical attention, and I’m going to take him to the nurse right now.”

“Are you trying to walk away from this?”  Bahorel starts to laugh again before panic starts to seep in around the corners of his smile.

“Yes, and you’re going to let me.  You must have realized that you aren’t going to get out of this unaffected.  No, I’m not threatening you; unless you’re more obtuse than I originally thought, you’ve noticed the fact that Grantaire’s not the only one covered in blood.  That's more than a little but suspicious, no?"

Blanching, Bahorel wipes his hand on his already crimson-stained jacket and shifts his shoulders away from Combeferre.  “You’re… Whatever.”

With that, he continues down the hall with his friends shuffling behind him uncertainly.  Courfeyrac is the only one who says, grinning at Combeferre.

“‘Atta boy, way to outsmart him.”  He makes a motion to slap Combeferre on the back, but the boy dodges him, adjusting his glasses and turning his glare to fix on Courfeyrac.

“Don’t touch me.”

“What?”

“You’re no different than them and I don’t want to have anything to do with any of you,” Combeferre says simply, raising his eyebrows as Courfeyrac begins to splutter.

“What are you getting at?  You think you’re better than me?” Courfeyrac asks, tone becoming defensive.

“No, I don't.  That's not what I mean."

“Look, I’m busting my ass trying to help you and this is how you thank me?  You’re ridiculous.  I’m trying to fix the problems in our school; how many times have I stood up for you in front of those assholes, hmm?”

“Plenty of times, and I’m not trying to be inconsiderate,” Combeferre explains, growing more impatient by the second.  “But I’m sure you know that you don’t actually _do_ anything.”

“What are you talking about?  I defend you all the time, they know that I don’t agree with them and I-”

“For god’s sake, if you disagree with what they’re doing, then have you thought that, perhaps, I don’t know, you should probably tell them?  Oh, but of course you can’t do that because they’re your friends and that would make them upset.  Well guess what?  You can’t just pop in and stop them whenever you feel like it, and when you don't, stand around, watching it happen, because you're afraid of them."

"I'm _not_ afraid of them-"

"Oh, really?  Then why don't you do something about the bullying in this school?  Passive-aggressively warding off the people you call your friends doesn't cut it because right now it looks a whole hell of a lot like you support them."

"Then why would I take the time to help you?"

"Self image?"  Combeferre shrugs.  "I don't know, you tell me; I'm at a loss and I need to take my friend to the nurse.  Because that's what friends do, they help each other."

"But-"

"No," says Combeferre, holding up a hand as he struggles to lift Grantaire to his feet with his other arm.  "I don't want to hear anything you have to say right now.  I thought you were different...  You- you told me that you'd changed.  I guess I'm just naive,” his voice softens as he says the last sentence, and Combeferre no longer sounds angry; sadness perforates his words.  He pauses, mouth open, before he shakes his head and continues, voice taking on an icy quality."  Come talk to me when you've decided whether you're a decent human being, or one of them; and yes, they're mutually exclusive.  From where I'm standing, it's pretty damn hard to be both."

With that, he begins down the hall, carrying a woozy Grantaire with him.  Courfeyrac is left standing in the middle of the hall, dumbstruck.

“Well, shit,” he mumbles softly, breath barely escaping his lips.  

Reaching out, Courfeyrac closes Grantaire locker, gently pushing the lock shut.  He stays for a few seconds, gathering his thoughts that were so artfully dismantled by Combeferre, staring at the place where the boys disappeared around the corner.  The clock above him ticks quietly and Courfeyrac swears when he glances up, suddenly running in the opposite direction that Combeferre went.  He’s going to be late to class.

 

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

 

“Thanks,” Grantaire says quietly to Combeferre as the pair of friends wait in the nurse’s office.  The word sounds thick and strained as he speaks around the tissue that is catching the steady stream if blood still trickling out of his nose.  "Do you think it's broken?"

"I don't know, I'm not a doctor," Combeferre shrugs.  “And it's really no problem at all; you would do the same for me.”

Shifting his position on the uncomfortable plastic chair that he’s perched on, Grantaire snorts.  “Yeah, sure.”

“You would.”

“I couldn’t even stand up for myself back there, what makes you think I’d do anything different for you.”

Grantaire immediately wants to take the words back when Combeferre flinches, but he can't quite bring himself to regret them.  What he said is true, after all.

“I believe that you would, Grantaire.  You’re a better person than you give yourself credit for.”

“I’m a coward.”

Combeferre frowns, considering this.  “No,” he says slowly, “you’re afraid; and I think that you’ll learn how to get past that if you ever do need to help someone you care about.”

Taking a moment to let that sink in, Grantaire bites his lip hard, letting the pain make it easier to blink past the tears in his eyes.  “Yeah,” he says, trying to laugh; it comes out strangled.  “Maybe that’s why I couldn’t help myself.”

“Grantaire…”

“I know, I know, ‘you’re worth more than that,’ ‘you have so much potential, Cameron,’” his voice is mocking and bitter.  “I’ve heard it all before and if someone says one more goddamn thing about wasted potential, I’m going to lose it.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Combeferre’s voice is careful and steady, not betraying the way his heart is lurching in his chest.  “I just… I care about you a lot.  You’re the only friend I’ve ever had here-”

“You don’t need to make me-”

“Shut up,” says Combeferre, the words cutting through Grantaire’s protest, leaving silence in their wake, “this isn’t for your sake, it’s for mine.  I need to know that you’ve heard this from me, I need…  I need you to know that I care about you.  You’re the only friend I’ve managed to make in high school; before this, I was the weird kid with too many books and not enough friends, sitting in the corner at recess.  I built my own version of happiness from printed words and other worlds; where everything was a little kinder and softer.  Then you came along.  Even our companionable silence felt safer and I don’t know what I’d do without you at this point.  I will always be there for you, I promise.”

Combeferre draws a deep breath of cool air into his lungs, urging the tremble out of his voice.  

“It occurs to me,” he continues, “that the people who have been alone are the most afraid of being lonely; and I’m terrified.  I don’t know how to go back to that, to not having anyone.  You are _so_ important to me.  From the day I broke into your house to give you that history book, I knew that we would be friends.  I need you to tell me that this isn’t all in my head because you’re sounding like you don’t care about me and that scares me, man.”

Looking at Grantaire for the first time since he started speaking, Combeferre stifles a soft gasp; the boy’s chin is quivering and his teeth are still trapping his bottom lip.

He takes a deep breath before turning to face Combeferre.  “I do care about you.  I’m just not sure whether I care enough about anything to be able to help you if I needed to and I hate that.  I don’t want to be useless in this friendship and… I- I’m worried that I might hate myself sometimes.”

“I never meant-”

“It’s not because of you, it’s just something that I can’t get out of my head and-”

“Grantaire?” the school nurse pops his head around the door, a blinding grin plastered on his face.  “Would you care to come in?”

Grantaire nods and throws an apologetic look over his shoulder, expression fading into concern when he sees his friend.  Then he’s gone, the door quietly clicking closed behind him.  Combeferre sighs, knowing when his friend turns away that his emotions are painted on his face.  It’s more difficult than he’d like to admit to hide his pity; but it’s even more difficult to hide the anger.  Fury begins to build behind his eyes, stinging moisture into his tear ducts.  

Combeferre wants to scream.  He wants to yell at all of the people who have ever hurt Grantaire and he wants to shake them until they realize what they’ve done.  It’s all their fault and Combeferre can’t fix it.  He can’t fix it and he knows that he shouldn’t want to, but he feels helpless and weightless; trapped in the waiting room of the nurse’s office.  His hand slowly clenches into a fist as he lets a sob wrack his body.  There aren’t any tears to follow, just a hollow, empty feeling in the pit of his stomach that builds to an ache in his chest.  It’s like someone is standing on him, pressing down on his lungs and he doesn’t know what to do.  

In a moment, the coil inside him unwinds and he leaps up from his chair, pivoting on his foot and slamming his right hand into the wall.  He’s not very strong, so it simply leaves a small dent that is barely noticeable in the bright lighting.  All of the fight falls from his body, leaving him slouched and limp, staring at a pale green wall.  

_What am I doing?_

Combeferre never loses his temper, he is the calm, rational force that helps guide people who need him.  Despite his lack of friends, there is always a plethora of people who seek out his corner of the library, needing his advice about something or other that is bothering them.  He never breaks, never bends; Combeferre has never had the choice.  His father needs him to take care of his little sister during his long surgeon’s shifts, and, along with the aforementioned group of people, Grantaire doesn’t need anyone dragging him farther down than he already is.

Taking a moment to collect himself, smoothing down his hair and shirt, re-adjusting his glasses, and breathing deeply for a few seconds, Combeferre clears his throat and pushes through the door that leads to the hallway.  He’s instantly met with the buzzing noise that is always persistent in the halls during class-change, and he meshes into the crowd easily.  

The next day, Combeferre sits in the library in the morning, waiting for Grantaire as he usually does.  When the boy slides down the bookshelf next to him, Combeferre nods, receiving the gesture in kind, and continues reading.  The friends do not talk about the conversation that took place the previous day.  Combeferre catches Grantaire glancing at his red knuckles a few times, but no comments are made.  It’s as though yesterday never happened, and, although it is glaringly clear that neither boy is content with pretending so, they do anyway.  Combeferre isn’t sure why, but he supposes it’s easier to make believe that nothing is wrong; perhaps if he repeats the sentiment enough, it might become true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, the next update will be posted next week (I can finally say this with certainty because it has already been written :) ). As always, comments and criticism are appreciated and I will probably love you forever if you write one.  
> Until next time, you guys can pop in and watch me write whenever I do livestreams. Look for the posts telling you when I'm writing at canadiancosette.tumblr.com/tagged/fanfictionlive and come add your opinions to the writing process.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you goes out to gaymercutio, lesmisgayrables, ladyprouvaire, and sovinly for helping me edit this chapter, your assistance is priceless. As always, I owe a shout-out to enjolgay who always encourages me to keep writing. This was actually one of the first sections I wrote when I first started fleshing out this fic, and she was the one who listened to me as I typed it all to her over Facebook.  
> Enjoy. :)

“What are you doing back here?”

Courfeyrac’s footsteps make awful squelching sounds in the mud as he rounds the corner and appears behind the school bleachers, confusion clear in the set of his jaw.  

Second semester has just begun; everyone has their new set of courses and Grantaire should be in the art room right now.  In a quite frankly confusing turn of events, he’s found himself at the opposite end of the school, huddled outside behind decorative shrubbery near the football field.

“And what happened to your eye?” continues Courfeyrac as he reaches Grantaire’s hiding place behind a giant hydrangea bush.

Grantaire tries to slow his panting, tilting his head up to face the sun.  He squints and raises a hand to block the pale light that is filtering through Courfeyrac’s curls.

“I got punched... and I’m hiding.”

“Again?”

"Apparently," Grantaires says dryly.

"And why, exactly, are you hiding behind a bush?"

“Bahorel is looking for me.” The smaller boy swallows nervously.  “Please don’t tell him where I am.”

“Why would ‘Rel be looking for you?”

“I may or may not have tried to punch him.”

Courfeyrac doesn’t even know how to form words to ask why he would do that.  There is no way that a scrawny little thing like Grantaire had any hope of even touching Bahorel.

At the other boy’s gaping, Grantaire shrugs.  “He threatened Combeferre.  Bahorel slammed my friend against a locker and broke his glasses.  So I broke his nose.  It's kind of poetic justice, in a way; a little payback.”

“Oh my god... you absolute idiot.” Courfeyrac whispers, running forward and hauling his classmate behind him, heading to the change rooms.

“Hey, what are you doing?  Get off of me.” Grantaire tries in vain to clamber out of the tight grip he’s held in.

“Shut up.” Courf lets do and whirls on him.  “Do you want to die?  No?  Okay, then shut your mouth and follow me.”

Now it’s Grantaire’s mouth that hangs open as he mutely follows the other boy to the boy’s dressing room and allows himself to be shoved behind a grimy shower curtain.  He swallows hard and shrinks into himself.  Grantaire’s eye his still throbbing and he really doesn’t need any more injuries.

“Please don’t hurt me,” he squeaks.

“Wha- Never mind.” Courf shakes his head and runs a hand through his tousled curls.  He looks conflicted and nervous, eyes flicking from side-to-side as he steps into the small space with Grantaire.  “Just stay here for a while, alright?  I’ll keep ‘Rel busy for the rest of the day and you just lay low until third period, okay?”

“Why are you helping me?” Grantaire asks suspiciously, backing away from the boy in front of him until he hits the damp wall behind him.  He takes a few quick steps forward again when his hand brushes against something fuzzy.

Taking a deep breath, Courfeyrac looks down at him, “You’re a good guy.  Just in the wrong place with the wrong pile of jerks, yeah?  I hang around with them, but that doesn’t mean I agree with the shit they pull.”

Grantaire blinks.

“You also helped Combeferre’” he continues, “that takes balls.  He’s a nice person, too.  I don’t know, it’s just not right: guys like ‘Rel and Enj and Bossuet picking on you two.  It’s always you guys and that’s not fair and I just want... I don’t know, I want to do something about it.”

When there’s no response, Courfeyrac sighs and looks toward the ceiling.  “Alright, well I better go and see if ‘Ferre is alright.  I wonder if he carries a spare pair of glasses...”

“He does,” Grantaire says slowly, taking time to digest the words he just heard.  “Wait, what did you call him?”

“Combeferre?”

“’Ferre, you called him ‘Ferre....”

“Yeah,” Courf wraps an arm around himself, no longer striving to meet Grantaire’s eyes.

“Nobody calls him ‘Ferre.”

“You do,” says Courfeyrac, taking a halting step backward.

“Yes, but I’m no one.” Grantaire shakes his head.  “The point is that people don’t know I call him that.”

“What of it?”

“You would have had to spend quite a bit of time with him before he asked you to call him that.”

“You think you’re so smart, don’t you?” Courfeyrac’s tone is defensive, bordering on angry.  “You have nothing to do with us-”

“Oh my god... you’re sweet on him.  You like Combef-”

The air is knocked out of Grantaire’s lungs as Courfeyrac lungs forward, pressing him back against the sticky shower tiles with one strong arm.  “Don’t you dare say that.  Don’t fucking say a word about this to anyone, you understand?  I’m not fucking around with anyone, yeah?  You keep your mouth shut or I will end you.”

By the time Courfeyrac pulls away, looking torn between murderous and guilty, Grantaire is shaking, gasping for breath.  The other boy hesitates as he walks out of the room, he looks as though he might say something else, but he shakes his head and slams the door behind him.

Grantaire slides down to the floor and tries desperately to ignore the smell: a thick mixture of sweat, mold, and urine.

“Shit.”

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

When the bell signals the beginning of third period, ear-piercing rings echoing through the empty room, Grantaire leaps off of the floor.  Fuck, he hadn’t been paying attention to the time.

His stomach all but rises up into his throat when he hears footsteps rush toward the change room and the door scrape against the floor.  He is stuck and there’s nothing he can do about it.  Pulling himself into the farthest corner of the tiny shower stall, Grantaire listens carefully at the approaching footsteps.

Ducking down and peering under the curtain, his breath catches in his throat.  Bright red converse face him, scuff marks lining the white rubber and dirt stains running along the colourful material.

The shower curtain jerks to the side, revealing a very surprised looking Enjolras.

“Grantaire?  What are you doing here?” the blonde boy asks, eyebrows leaping up toward his forehead.  “And what happened to your eye?”

“Yes.  Hiding.  Bahorel.” Is the curt reply; Grantaire really isn’t in the mood for Enjolras right now and would very much like to crawl into the shower drain and disappear.

To his surprise, Enjolras chuckles and Grantaire feels relieved for exactly three seconds before the other boy turns to face the door.  “Hey, ‘Rel, he’s in here,” he shouts.

Grantaire’s eyes go wide as Bossuet, Bahorel, and three other guys from the football team walk into the room.  He recognizes one of the thugs from the team, Babet, who always seems to be using freshmen as punching bags.  He’s a star player though, so nothing is done about the conflicts.  One of Babet’s friends’ names starts with a ‘C’, Grantaire thinks.  Claque-something, maybe?  

Grantaire is pulled back to the situation at hand when he sees a figure slowly approach out of the corner of his eye.  Fear strikes though him, running down his spine like liquid fire.

Brujon smirks and cracks his knuckles, which should look ridiculous, but Grantaire is too terrified to think about it.  The act is menacing in of itself, coupled with the boy’s violent nature, and that is enough for the smaller boy to lean farther back against the wall.  

“Looks like we found ourselves a nerd, boys,” Brujon purrs, rolling his shoulders back.

The answering laugh from Bahorel is ugly, more frightening than usual with blood trickling down his face and into his mouth.

“You broke my nose,” he says simply.

Grantaire doesn’t respond, he’s too busy trying to figure out how to blend into the wall and pretend he’s not there.  His mind briefly registers Courfeyrac re-entering the room before it latches back onto the imminent threat in front of him.  The quick glance settles Grantaire somewhat; the other boy looked less panicked than before which most likely means that Combeferre is alright.  Courfeyrac seems like he may be able to help pull him out of this, he did hide him in here earlier.  Having a possible ally, even if his role might be as helpful as a disapproving look toward his friends, sends a strange jolt through Grantaire.  Of course, there’s also Bossuet, but he’s never said anything before; all the help he’ll be worth is the pitying looks he sends toward Grantaire every now and again.

“I _said_ you broke my nose.” Bahorel is still standing in front of him, anger barely masking the pain that flashes across his expression every time he speaks.  “You have something to tell me?”

 _There’s no way I’m getting out of this scot-free, it’s all or nothing,_ Grantaire thinks.

He spits at Bahorel’s feet and laughs.  “It suits you.”

The other boy roars and starts to run forward when Courfeyrac catches him from behind.

“Think about what you’re doing, ‘Rel,” he says, “is he really worth your scholarship?  You know the terms: no suspensions or it’s gone.”

Within the span of a few second, all of the fight goes out of Bahorel, who glares at Grantaire but allows Courfeyrac to pull him back anyway.

“This isn’t over,” he snarls and steps out of the changing room with Brujon close at his heels.  Babet and his companion follow without so much as a backward glance.  At least Bossuet has the grace to look concerned as he scampers after his friends, the door shutting noisily behind him.

Enjolras looks at Grantaire in disgust, wrinkling his nose and curling his lip.  “You almost cost my friend his future, lowlife.”

“What did you just call me?” Adrenaline pumps through the boy’s body, still not dissipated from his earlier stand of confidence.

“Oh come on, like you haven’t heard it before,” Enjolras rolls his eyes and smoothes down the front of his crisp white shirt.  “Everyone knows your dad left you in the slums.  I mean, I don’t blame him for dumping that whore you call your mother, if my wife slept around and-”

His words halt abruptly when Grantaire’s fist slams into his face.  Exhilaration rushes through the smaller boy as he punches someone for the second time in his life.  Enjolras doesn’t retaliate as expected, he just stands there, slack-jawed and more than a little bit shocked.

Before he can stop them, Grantaire feels hot tears spilling down his cheeks, but he doesn’t bother to reach up and wipe them away.  

“Fuck you.  I’m a human being.  You can’t treat a fucking person like that.  I have rights and feelings and I’m no different than you.  No,” he holds up a hand when Enjolras opens his mouth, “that’s not quite right, is it?  I’m better than you because I don’t make people feel like shit for my own sick entertainment.  God, I’ve wanted to say this to you for such a long time.  Yeah, you may be rich and smart, but nobody who is worth knowing is going to care that you’ve won the genetic lottery.”

Enjolras stay silent and it’s such an odd occurrence that Grantaire momentarily loses his train of thought before continuing.

“Because no matter how incredible you _appear_ to be, you will always be a terrible person.  Do you think anyone at this school has respect for you?  Everyone is either afraid of you, or too stupid to realise how horrible you are.  You’re going to grow up and become a clone of your father.  You will be a bully your entire life and nobody will ever really care about you.  Your life will be full of people who pretend to like you, so that they can keep their job, or their social status, or whatever the fuck else is important to people like you, because they’ll be afraid of you.  Is that what you want?  Hmm?  To control people with fear?  Well, you’re doing a bang-up job, fucking ace, because everyone is too fucking scared to tell you what an asshole you are.  I hope you’re proud of yourself because, take a look at your life, you’re the face of capitalism.  Make people too afraid to question you and use your power to take everything away from them when it really matters.  You don’t care and you never will; your life will mean nothing at all.  Just remember that next time you corner the little guy.  It’s not brave, it’s the worst kind of cowardice.”

“Grantaire-”  Enjolras’ response is choked off as he pauses, unsure of what to say.  

Silence expands, filling the space around the two boys, Grantaire panting and sweaty, Enjolras stock-still.  Until he spoke, Grantaire wasn’t fully aware that those emotions had been building up, didn’t know that he was allowed to have those opinions about Enjolras.  As soon as he put the other boy on a level playing field with himself, tearing down his facade of superiority, the illusion fell away.  Enjolras is just another boy, just another bully, and Grantaire doesn’t need to bow to him.  He turns around.  The blonde looks like he was just slapped, trying to find footing now that his mask has been torn from him.  It’s like an epiphany just placed itself in front of Enjolras and he’s trying to work it out.  The closer he gets to the truth, the more horrified he is at himself.

Grantaire laughs, and the anger of his words is gone.  He just sounds sad.  “Fancy that, you never actually thought of me as another person.  Just... God, you disgust me.”

Enjolras nods, as if accepting this as truth, something that was unthinkable to Grantaire just a few short moments ago.  The dark haired boy doesn’t know what to do with this.  The tension that had been building up in the room suddenly weighs on both students and silence rings louder than any words in the space.

Grantaire finally reaches up to wipe the tears- now mostly dried- from his face and says quietly, “He didn’t leave us…  My dad.  He died.”

With that, he takes his exit, leaving Enjolras behind him looking just as lost as Grantaire feels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woooo, I finally posted this after it sat there for a few months. I think I wrote it back in December and I've edited it a lot, but this is what started this whole adventure. The next chapter should be added in another week or so, I have all of the plot for the next few sections laid out, I just need to write some detail into them.   
> If you leave a comment, I will probably send you loads of chocolate and hugs because they make my day. Suggestions, criticism, and thoughts on the chapter are all very much appreciated. :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to sovinly who rambled with me about plotlines and characters, and actually helped lead this chapter in a completely different direction than it was originally going to go. I would also like to thank punkbossuet who is one of the most amazing betas I could have asked for. Shout out to enjolgay because, again, she’s the reason I’m writing and she allowed this fic to exist when I typed shouty headcanons at her.
> 
> CONTENT WARNING FOR DESCRIPTIONS OF VIOLENCE AND BLOOD

“Oh my god, you’re okay,” Grantaire exclaims as he walks through the entrance of the library, effectively crashing into a flustered-looking Combeferre.

“ _ I’m  _ okay?  Where the hell have  _ you  _ been?”  Combeferre all but shouts, earning him a glare from the librarian.  “Just… oh, come on,” he says in hushed tones, grabbing Grantaire’s wrist as he leads him down the hall, heading toward a stairwell.

Grantaire feels a strange sense of deja vu, his mind flickering back to the first day of school, to his breakdown.  His almost-confession.  Everything comes flooding back and suddenly it’s difficult to silence the words that he almost said that day.  They are sitting heavy at the back of his throat, urging his tongue to move, his mouth to open and tell his friend everything; but he can’t.  How would Combeferre react?  He would be repulsed, angry; he would tell Grantaire that he’s as much of a freak as everyone says.   Faced with the sudden urge to own up, Grantaire feels stretched thin.  He just wants to curl up in a ball and cry.  The discussion that he’s bound to have with Combeferre in that case seems to be more trouble than it’s worth.  He’s probably better off-

No.

Grantaire is done running; he’s done avoiding his problems.  Not being able to control anything in his life is so  _ stifling  _ and he can’t live like that anymore.  He needs to-

“What were you thinking, R?”  Combeferre hisses, interrupting Grantaire’s thoughts and punctuating his words as his grip becomes painfully tight.  

A whimpered protest slips out of Grantaire’s mouth before he can stop it, and Combeferre quickly pulls away, looking guilty through the thick layer of fear in his voice.  All at once, Grantaire is pulled back to the situatíon at hand and, for the first time, he notices the unusual shine to Combeferre’s eyes beneath his glasses.  Moisture wells in the boy’s tear ducts and he quickly wipes a hand under his spectacles, brushing away any evidence, save for the redness that lingers.

“I… he was hurting you, what was I supposed to do?”  Grantaire gesticulates helplessly.

“Punching him certainly wasn’t the answer,” Combeferre replies swiftly, sounding irritatingly disapproving.

“Oh, really?  Well how else was I supposed to distract him?  He was about to beat you to a pulp.”

“Find a teacher?  Someone who could help?”  tries Combeferre, the anger in his voice rising a little before he collects himself again.  

“Yeah, because they always do so much to help us.”  Sarcasm drips thickly from the statement and sets Grantaire’s teeth grinding, anger funneling out through little ticks of habit.

Combeferre’s voice sounds calmer when he speaks next, but the tips of his ears, brushed a deep red against his dark complexion, give away his frustration.

“I’m not some little kid you need to lecture and you aren’t my mom.  I can take care of myself,” Grantaire says lowly, glowering at his friend, the look acting as a sort of dare.

Combeferre’s face twists at this and he spits, “Oh yeah,  _ clearly _ ,” gesturing to Grantaire’s blood-swollen eye.  

Grantaire reels back, feeling like his friend struck him across the face.  Grimacing, Combeferre pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and middle finger before he tries again.  “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for.”

Sighing, Grantaire lets the fight slip out of him.  “I know, I shouldn’t have snapped at you, I just… adrenaline?”

“It doesn’t matter, you’ve had a rough day, looks like you’ve been through the ringer.”  Combeferre lays a gentle palm on the side of the other boy’s face, thumb softly brushing over the red splotches that are blooming across his cheekbone.  “That looks pretty bad.”

“Feels like it,” agrees Grantaire, nodding.  “I kind of expected it though, so it’s not like I’m surprised.”  

As soon as his fist had connected with Bahorel’s nose with a satisfying crunch, he had been greeted with the sight of the other boy’s knee-jerk reaction:  his knuckles flying toward Grantaire’s eye.

“So what happened with you, anyway?  Not a scratch on you.  Except for… well…” he continues, looking at the cracked lense in Combeferre’s left frame apologetically.

The boy simply laughs and shrugs one shoulder, rolling it back casually.  “The glasses aren’t completely totalled, which is nice because I really do need them to see anything at all; the old man won’t be happy, though.”

“Your dad’s, like, forty; isn’t he the same age as my mom?”

Ignoring the question, Combeferre pressed forward, “After you ran away - hey, I’m not berating you, it was the smart thing to do - Bahorel left, too.  So, I was effectively alone.  I was afraid that he’d come back, so I decided to hide in the library which is, admittedly, predictable, but it feels safe, you know?  Anyway, Courfeyrac found me after a few minutes and we started chatting.”

“What’d he say?” Grantaire leans toward his friend, a furrow developing between his brows.

“He was really angry… furious.  He took me to the nurse and after he made sure I was okay, he left.”  Combeferre looks at Grantaire expectantly.

“That sounds about right, he came back to the changing room just after Bahorel and his thugs got there.”

“He said he found you hiding in the shrubbery,” Combeferre says as he bites back laughter, his expression becoming serious again before he asks, “So what did he do to Bahorel?”

“What?  Nothing.  Stopped him from pummeling me into the wall, I guess.”  It’s Grantaire’s turn to fix the taller boy with a questioning glance.

“That’s strange.  He kept saying that he was going to kill Bahorel, making him regret hurting me...”

Grantaire nods absently as Combeferre continues detailing the events of his morning.  Of course Courfeyrac would want to defend ‘Ferre, he was so worried when Grantaire had told him that the boy had been attacked by Bahorel.  It was all so obvious and Grantaire can’t believe that he hadn’t seen it sooner in the shared glances between Combeferre and Courfeyrac whenever they come within a few feet of each other, and the intense stance of protectiveness that takes over Courfeyrac’s frame whenever Combeferre is threatened.  

“... if anything, this just serves to demonstrate how little Courfeyrac’s words mean.  I’m starting to think that he’s actually physically incapable of acting on his protestations, it’s pathetic,” Combeferre finishes bitingly, turning when he hears approaching footsteps pounding loudly on the tile.

“There you are.”  A particularly frazzled-looking Bossuet rounds the corner, ducking beneath the stairwell to crowd into the already cramped space.  He stops to take a second so that he can catch his breath, his hands braced on his knees as he heaves.  “I’ve been looking everywhere for you two.”

His gentle voice never fails to, well not surprise Grantaire, exactly, but it seems so strange coming from Bossuet.  A strange juxtaposition is created between the boy and his soft tone, appearance not quite lining up with what Grantaire expects to hear.  Bossuet is tall, easily over six feet, and built with broad, although rounded, shoulders, and large hands.  Such a soft-spoken demeanour seems out of place, especially when one considers the people with whom Bossuet associates.  

“Why, pray tell, were you looking for us?”  Combeferre’s eyes scan the other boy, narrowing suspiciously as he purses his lips.  Everything about his reaction screams hostility.  “Actually, never mind, I really don’t think that you should be around us right now; if you knew what was good for you, you’d leave.”

“Woah, hold on there a second.  Just give me a second to explain, Combeferre,” pleads Bossuet.  He continues when he receives a nod in return, “There’s a rumour going around that Enjolras beat Grantaire up because your boy tried to make a move on him.  Before you ask, no, I didn’t have anything to do with this and I know that’s not what happened.  Word is that Babet started telling people in the caf and… well, you know how people are.”

“So why are you telling us this?”  Grantaire interjects.  

“Right, of course, sorry.  I don’t think Babet expected people to start gossiping so quickly and a few of the guys talked him, Claquesous, and Brujon into defending Enjolras’ ‘honour,’ so to speak.”

“Meaning…?”

“ They’re looking for you, Grantaire.  I think that Babet and Brujon know it’s all talk, but ‘Sous is  _ pissed _ , I’m pretty sure that he believes the story and it’s doesn’t seem like he’s in the mindset for rational discussion.  In all honesty, they’re going to leave you with a lot worse than a black eye if they have their way.”

“Damn those idiots,” Combeferre whispers viciously, nodding curtly toward Bossuet before dragging Grantaire back into the hallway.  “Thank you, this was… kind of you to do.”

“No problem,” Bossuet responds, a soft smile crinkling his eyes, weighed down by the crippling guilt behind them.  “They’re all assholes and I - I don’t want to be like them anymore.”

“They’re your friends,” Combeferre reminds him.

“Not anymore.  I quit the team, I’m done with the likes of them. If they want me back, they are going to have to drastically re-adjust their attitude toward bullying in the school.”

After considering this for a moment, Combeferre nods once again.  “Alright then.”

A dumbstruck Grantaire follows haltingly behind him as Combeferre continues heading toward the west exit of the school.

“What the hell just happened?”  Grantaire mumbles, a daze still hanging around him.

“I think we just witnessed the changing of a man,” Combeferre replies with a wry grin.  “That doesn’t matter right now, though; we need to get you out of here.”

“So they can just beat me up some other time?”

“It’s Friday, Grantaire.  Come school next Monday, they’ll have forgotten all about it.  Babet and Brujon are too cowardly to remind Claquesous if they remember, anyway.”

“If you think so,” Grantaire allows, letting Combeferre guide him the way he always has.  The boy hasn’t led him astray thus far; he is deserving of Grantaire’s trust.

When they reach the double doors that lead out into the school’s parking lot, Combeferre stops, lacing a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. 

“Alright, I’ll tell M. Thibault that you’ve gone home early, get your mother to call; tell her to say you’re sick or something.”

“Okay.” Grantaire’s voice trembles.

Combeferre’s gentle expression seeps effortlessly into Grantaire when he reaches a hand out, squeezing his friend’s shoulder.  It is an indescribably grounding feeling.  “Okay,” he repeats, more firmly than before.”

“Call me when you get home,” Combeferre tells him, “we’ll make plans for the weekend.”

“Sounds good.”

“And, Grantaire?  We’ll deal with the rumours on Monday, set everything straight, it’ll be fine.  This is all just a means to justify the slurs they call us.”

“‘Ferre…”

“I mean, it’s ridiculous.  There’s no reason for you to be staring at Enjolras anyway…”

Grantaire’s heart lurches.  He ignores it.

Combeferre continues, “... everything will go back to normal soon, you’ll see.  They’re just nasty lies, is all, and you simply need to make it clear that you’re straight.”

“Combeferre,” Grantaire says, louder than he’d intended.  “Ferre, I can’t do that.”

“Why not?  I mean, it’s obviously daunting considering who started the rumour, but we’ll do it tog-”

“No, you don’t understand.”

Frowning, Combeferre takes a step back, scrutinizing his friend.  “What?  Do you want to live like this?  Live in fear, always scared about what they’ll do or say?  You can’t keep choosing the cowardly path, it won’t get you anywhere and if you think that-”

“I’m gay, ‘Ferre.”

Grantaire’s confession echoes loudly in the halls, the silence that falls after he speaks the words that have been building up for months is deafening.  Silence.  Combeferre isn’t responding.  Why isn’t he saying anything?   _ Why isn’t he saying anything?  Oh god, he must hate me.  If he didn’t think I was a freak before, now he knows.  There it is: I’m finally alone, it was always going to end with this.   _

_ Breathe. _ Grantaire needs to breathe but his chest is constricting and he can’t decide whether he wants to stay and explain everything, or run as far away as he can and never look back.  That’s almost comical; of course he knows what he’s going to do, he’s always been a coward.

“I’m sorry,” is the last thing that Grantaire says to Combeferre before the door swings shut between them.  

  
  


o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

  
  


Five minutes later, Grantaire is well on his way home, far enough from the school that he finally begins to relax.  Tension melts out of his shoulders and he exhales deeply, he’ll deal with everything on Monday, he can plan with Combeferre this weekend and -  

Oh.  Right.

Okay, so scratch that, Combeferre is out of the picture.  Grantaire feels an ache work it’s way up his sternum; _ it’s fine, everything will be alright. _ He’s survived without Combeferre in the past, there was a time in his life when they never knew each other and Grantaire made it through.  The only problem is that he can’t remember how he dealt with situations like this before their friendship.  Every plan he formulates in his mind always involves Combeferre’s gentle patience, his advice on the best way to approach these solutions.

Grantaire can’t imagine his life without his best friend, but Combeferre is gone, now.  Accepting loss is always the hardest part of the rise and fall of relationships, but Grantaire has to learn quickly.  His only reprieve… his only source of peace has become a “them,” and there is no longer an “us,” Grantaire is alone.

As a car whips past him, Grantaire’s thin windbreaker is thrown back in the gust that the vehicle leaves behind.  His steps fall out of rhythm for a moment as an uneasy feeling envelops him; he’s forgetting something.  The grease-laden smell of fast food reaches his nose when he approaches the corner where the local Burger King resides.

Lunch.

Another vehicle blazes past Grantaire, a large pickup truck this time, and the air in his lungs seems to freeze.  He stops dead in his tracks, fright taking control of his body, as he hears the squeal of car tires braking abruptly against the pavement.  Car doors open and slam closed in quick succession, two of them and a delayed third that sounds louder.  It must be the access-door to the flatbed. 

Footsteps approach, followed by jeering remarks that his fear-muddled brain doesn’t process.  This all happens in the span of a few minutes, but to Grantaire it seems like a lifetime.  He squeezes his eyes shut for a split second as his chin starts to tremble, the corners of his mouth pulled down by some unseeable force.  He turns around.

Every inch of his body is screaming at him to run, to escape and never come back, but his feet stay frozen in place.  The back of his eyes sting painfully and he feels his lungs lift into his throat, choking off the scream that is clawing up his chest.  It all seems like a dream, so reminiscent of a nightmare in which he can’t move or scream for help; instead he is forced to watch everything that happens to him in some sort of sadistic out-of-body experience.  Except this isn’t a dream: he’s very much inside his mind and acutely aware of the danger looming in front of him as Claquesous closes the final few steps that remained between them.

Grantaire allows himself one breath, one moment of peace before the terror comes crashing down, burying him beneath its suffocating weight.  These few seconds of nothingness are pure bliss before his kneecaps hit the pavement with a sickening crack.  Seconds later, his brain registers the dull pain radiating the the backs of his knees, the blow that caused them to buckle.  The soft rush of oxygen shudders out of his nose, a sob without any sound because his lips are pressed together, just on the edge of trembling.  Harsh laughter is shared between two people behind him before a hand grips the back of his head, forcing it forward.  Grantaire’s face hits the pavement and is held there even as blood pools beneath his head, wetting his cheeks that are already soaked with tears.  

Agony wraps its hands around his face as he’s pulled up to a kneeling position.  Grantaire is mostly incoherent, shuddering with pain and choking on his own blood.  It runs thickly down his throat and he coughs, spewing blood against the sidewalk in front of him.

Someone - it sounds like Babet - spits, “faggot” at him before driving their foot into his stomach.  As Grantaire reflexively tries to double over in a feeble attempt to protect himself, the hand that is still resting on his head yanks him back again.  A small cry of pain escapes his mouth as his nose screams in protests before all sound is cut off.  One of his assailants is holding Grantaire back, back bowed and neck stretched taught, such that his windpipe is straining against the skin there; air is barely wheezing into his lungs and it becomes all the more difficult to breathe as panic begins to well inside him.

Mercifully, the person that is gripping his hair and pulling him backwards, loosens their hold, allowing Grantaire some reprieve.  He inhales shakily and winces as another blow pounds into his ribs.  A horrible cracking sound fills the air as he is kicked again and vicious, biting pain follows fast after.  A guttural groan gusts out of his mouth as he’s hit from all angles, earth-shattering pain arresting any further reaction.  Grantaire tries to curl into a ball, to protect his aching body from the abuse, and in the moments before he’s granted a few precious seconds of peace, he thinks that this is simply an outward expression of what he’s been subjected to over the past few years; however, he doesn’t know if he can take it.

A foot nudges his head into the pavement again and grinds down, forcing his face into the gravel surface.  The side of his nose hits the cement and he feels it move, cartilage ripping father away from where it is supposed to be.  Grantaire can no longer contain himself and he screams, yelling his abuse back at his attackers before it is choked off as more blood flows into his mouth.  Shaking and trembling, his body straining toward unconsciousness, gargled wheezing is all he can manage in the face of demeaning coos and harsh slurs.

_ Enjolras is slowing walking home, picking his way along the cracks in the sidewalk, careful not to tread on the plants that poke up toward the sun from their homes in concrete crevices.  Having a spare period at the end of the day means that he can walk home early.  It’s going to be a nice feeling, having about an hour of time to himself before him parents arrive home.  His mother always spends her afternoons at the ladies’ bridge club; a pastime for which Enjolras is always grateful.  He managed to talk her out of coming home so that she could keep him company and is looking forward to being blissfully alone for once.  It’s not that his mother isn’t a nice person, she is very kind, it’s just that she’s too…. Enjolras pauses, trying to think of an adjective that is suitable.  Stifling?  Obedient?  Fickle?   _

_ A scream travels his way on the wind, tousling his hair with its blood-curdling immediacy.  It sounds like it’s wrecked with pain and Enjolras completely loses his train of thought, mind focusing on getting to the person as soon as he can.  Dress shoes scuffing across the pavement, he throws his tie to his back and breaks into a run. _

Everything feels cold and distant, and through the miserable haze that surrounds Grantaire, he hears footsteps.  They’re rhythmic and loud as they approach.  He latches onto the sound, finding comfort in the repetition; it takes his mind off of the tortuous convulsions running through his body until he is pulled up to his knees by the collar of his shirt.  The bruises that are already forming there radiate dull soreness through his nerves, but it feels almost pleasant in contrast to the rest of his injuries.  

“ This is what you get for being a fucking faggot,”  Claquesous is less than ten centimetres away from Grantaire, his sharp, panting breath hot and reeking.  “Someone needed to teach you not to check out my friends, freak.  Do you get a hard-on for Enjolras?  You want to be his boyfriend?  You’re disgusting, even if you were a girl, he’d  _ never  _ like someone like you.  You’re a fucking freak, he’s always going to hate you; you’re from two different worlds and you’ll never be one of us.  Nobody cares about you and no one ever will, you’re worthless.”

Grantaire’s breathing quickens as he finally lets go, allows sobs to wrack his body and tears roll down his face.  It’s all true, every word, and it hurts more than any physical injury.  Throughout his entire life he’s been told that old rhyme about stick and stones and words that somehow don’t do the damage they’re intended to do.  But it’s all fucking lies and he can’t handle it anymore.

_ Enjolras comes to a halt and abruptly feels his stomach drop to the floor.  Claquesous is holding a limp Grantaire by the scruff of his neck, face flaming red and spittle flying from his lips.  Minute movement shakes Grantaire’s frame and Enjolras startle with the realization that the boy is crying.  There’s something horribly disjointed about the thought; Grantaire is bulletproof, he’s this indestructible force of nature that doesn’t take shit from anyone.  Then, Enjolras remembers the last time he saw the other student cry; that day in that hallway when Grantaire couldn’t breathe and Enjolras didn’t know what to do.   _

“You’re so weak, it’s pathetic; I can’t believe that you even bother coming to school, no one wants you there.  Combeferre feels sorry for you and the rest of us don’t give a shit.  I don’t think that anybody would notice if you just disappeared, if you just stopped coming.  Maybe you should.  It would be better for all of us if you just left.”

_ This is horrible, Enjolras needs to do something, needs to stop it.  Before he can help himself, he shouts -  _

He shatters under every syllable and almost feels the sick need to laugh.  Grantaire wants to freeze this moment and show it to all of the bastards who told him that words would never hurt him.  No, they dig deep, burrow under your skin so you don’t quite know that they’re there.  But when you’re alone, doubting everything, they come back with a vengeance, speaking self-loathing and reasonable hatred until you don’t have any choice but to despise yourself because it is all true, and you don’t have any feasible method to prove them wrong.  Those words…. Those fucking words linger and sting, like a thousand paper cuts that never quite heal; and if they do, there are always others waiting to take their place, to remind him how pathetic, how useless…  

“You’re useless, worthless, lazy, you’re a fucking freak.  Did I forget anything?  Lazy.  Faggot.  Goddamn piece of shit.  You’ll never be anything else; you think anyone cares about someone like you?  Some welfare whore?  Fucking pathetic.”

Grantaire is pathetic and he knows it when he opens his mouth to speak and whispers -

“ _Please!”_

“P-please.”

Blood drips from Grantaire’s lips as he speaks the word so softly that he thinks perhaps no ears except for his own heard the plea, but suddenly, he falls.  There are hands slipping from his collar, his legs too weak to hold him.  Contact with the pavement should hurt, it feels jarring, but his brain doesn’t get the memo and all he feels is release.  

_ Blood soaks Grantaire, it’s everywhere and Enjolras is lost; yet again, he doesn’t know what to do.  The feeling is horrible, but looking at Grantaire like this is worse. _

“ _Leave.”_

“ _Hey, Enj, we were just doing you a favour,” Babet offers, stepping forward, arms wide as though he is waiting for an embrace._

“ _This isn’t a favour this… This is disgusting, you should be ashamed,” Enjolras snarls even as he feels a horrible pit of hypocrisy curl in his stomach._

“ _Whatever, I’m out of here,” Claquesous responds, leaving nothing in his wake but his friends trailing after him, and a few splotches of red that drip from his hand onto the concrete sidewalk._

_ With every splatter, Enjolras is painfully aware that the blood is not Claquesous’.  Trying to breathe normally, he is distressed when he can only manage a wheeze.  He and Grantaire are the only ones left on this lonely street and it’s up to him to fix this.  How the  _ fuck  _ does he fix this? _

Grantaire lies there on the ground, too exhausted to move, his body aching and shooting bolts of pain every time his muscles so much as twitch.  There’s conversation around him and he hears a familiar voice that almost sounds like…  “Enjolras?”  He mumbles the name before he realizes that it is most likely spoken too softly for anyone to hear.  

Straining to make sense of the discussion, Grantaire strains his ears.  

“Favour… Enj… Favour… Disgusting… Ashamed…”

Of course, of course Enjolras was the one who orchestrated everything.  Claquesous was just doing him and favour because Enjolras didn’t want him to come back; those words were all Enjolras’.  He probably told his goons exactly what to say because he thinks Grantaire is disgusting, and why wouldn’t he?

Grantaire’s vision begins to blur around the edges and he’s not sure if he’s started crying again or if he’s fainting, although it’s possible that both are happening at the same time.  Pathetic, yeah, that’s right.  Enjolras’ arms wrap around him, and his hair tickles Grantaire’s nose just as his extremities begin to go numb.  Dying is more peaceful than he would have imagined.  Suddenly he feels himself being lifted and panic seizes his chest.  Enjolras is going to dump him in a ditch somewhere, or maybe he’s going to go to a more secluded location so he can beat Grantaire up more, so he doesn’t have to worry about the noise attracting any suspicion.  

“ Don’t t-to _ uch me.” _

_ Enjolras flinches at the words; he’s trying to help and he wishes that he could tell Grantaire as much, but right now his words are caught in a swollen throat and he just knows that he will cry if he says anything.  So he doesn’t.  Grantaire doesn’t need tears right now, he needs to be somewhere safe and Enjolras is going to help him.   _

The last thing that Grantaire sees before his vision is swallowed by darkness is Enjolras’ curls, slightly frizzy and limp from the afternoon heat, silhouetted against pale sunlight that filters through them, and he thinks to himself that, if Enjolras were around during the time of Leochares, he would have made a beautiful statue.

_ Enjolras tries to ignore the dopey smile that lights up Grantaire’s face momentarily before he goes completely limp.  The boy’s weight is hard to carry when there is nothing else supporting it, and Enjolras struggles to reach a hand around to his back pocket.  His fingers finally find purchase on weathered faux-leather and he pulls out Grantaire’s wallet.  Shuffling through it awkwardly with one hand, he finally comes across a business card with what is, presumably, Grantaire’s mother’s name on it.  The paper advertises some kind of house cleaning service, but it has the boy’s address on it, only a few blocks away. _

_ Grunting, Enjolras shifts his feet and tries to hoist Grantaire into a more comfortable position with limited success.  The physical strain helps him ignore the loathsome way he feels right now, like he made this happen, even though he knows that he had nothing to do with the rumour or Claquesous’ violent tendencies.  The guilt is crippling and Enjolras finds that, for the first time, he can’t ignore it anymore because now it’s personified.  Guilt is Grantaire, bleeding onto the shirt and pants that probably cost more than his mom makes in a week.  It screams at him, tells him how disappointing he is and how he always fucks everything up.  He’s an embarrassment, he’s a disgrace.   _

_ The scariest thing is, the voice of guilt sounds exactly like his father. _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was, by far the most difficult chapter (or piece of writing for that matter) that I've ever had to work through. It was very fun to write, but the challenge kept me from updating as early as I would have liked. Anywho, let me know what you think in the comments down below (I will love you forever if you do, bonus points if you are crying onto your keyboard as you type :) ).  
> I have absolutely no idea when the next chapter will be updated because I'm going to be in even stranger waters. We'll be seeing how Grantaire's mother reacts to Enjolras bringing him home, and then meeting Enjolras' family, and possibly Combeferre's as well. As soon as I figure out how to tackle Enjolras' father, the chapter will come soon afterwards.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a giant thank you goes out to the lovely sovinly -- without her help and impeccable editing, I don't know where this fic would be. :)

Enjolras carries Grantaire home fairly easily, years of football training allowing him to hoist the boy in his arms without much struggle.  Although the dead weight is a bit awkward, Enjolras manages and soon arrives on Grantaire's street. Enjolras had found Grantaire's wallet in the pocket of his trousers, and had opened it hoping to find some sort of information about where he might take the injured boy.  Luckily, there was a small, slightly crumpled piece of paper in one of the compartments that advertised some kind of cleaning service.  He had almost thrown it away before he noticed the name _Marie Grantaire_ printed near the bottom.  Assuming that this was Grantaire's mother's name, Enjolras decided that the address near the top corner of the card stock must be his as well. Even if it wasn't, there would surely be someone at the residence who knew where Grantaire lived, or who could help him.

As soon as Enjolras sets foot on the road named Rocheleau, he knows that he has the correct address.  Surrounding him are rows of dilapidated houses, weather-beaten and crumbling.  A painfully thin dog is chained to the porch nearest to Enjolras, eyeing him with decided disinterest.  The leash is attached to a metal railing that is bent and warped, covered in peeling green paint.  Enjolras shifts his hold on Grantaire so that he can look at the address on the paper again, comparing it to the number on the residence in front of him.  It looks like he still has a while to walk, he is at number 871 and Grantaire lives down the street at 923.

Grantaire suddenly shifts in his arms and takes Enjolras by surprise, who tightens his hold on the other boy so as not to drop him.  Blearily, Grantaire opens one eye, then the other, and groans softly, making a feeble attempt to curl in on himself; however, Enjolras’ hold on him doesn’t allow for much movement, so he goes limp again, letting his eyelids droop shut again.  For a moment, Enjolras considers asking him how he is, or perhaps talking to him to keep him conscious.  As another moan stutters out of Grantaire’s mouth, Enjolras decides against it -- Grantaire is clearly in a lot of pain and looks like he just wants to sleep… or pass out again.  Either way, Enjolras leaves him be, he deserves as much as that for all he’s gone through today.

Shuffling farther along the asphalt roadway, Enjolras avoids the deep cracks and picks his way around potholes.  He is strikingly aware of the fact that he does not belong in this neighbourhood with his Armani shoes and pressed-crisp clothes.  For a moment, he wonders whether Grantaire feels this way at school. He's a smart person and he seems fairly self-aware, he must know that he is out of place.  Hand me down clothes that are always a few sizes too big and sneakers that are worn down to the soles is his trademark fashion statement. Even his friend, Combeferre, seems to fit into the picture with more ease.  It's well known that his father is a surgeon, everyone respects the man because of it, and although it's clear that his son is exempt from that treatment, Combeferre can afford more expenses than most kids in his grade. Allowing his mind to wander further as he examines the house numbers, Enjolras tries to think of a reason why Combeferre would place himself in the position that he has. Because of his quiet and gentle nature, the boy has never been one for joining clubs and sports, but he was popular enough for his kind reputation.

It wasn't until he began forming a friendship with Grantaire that he became the subject of ridicule as well. Combeferre had a perfectly pleasant life, why on Earth would he risk all of that for the sake of a relationship when he could have been friends with anyone of his choosing? Enjolras can't find the proper means to justify Combeferre's choice and it bothers him more than he'd like to admit. The decision just isn't rational; Grantaire isn't anything special, and, as far as Enjolras can tell, he and Combeferre spend most of their time reading quietly together.  The normal conversation and banter that is the basis of most friendships is strangely absent.

Enjolras' thought continue to wander, constantly snagging on the topic of this strange friendship, until he finally reaches Grantaire's house.  It's not as pitiful as he had first expected, which isn't really saying much.  Enjolras doesn't remember ever travelling this far into the heart of the west end of the city, and he's honestly impressed by the little bungalow; it’s much larger than anything he would have thought a single mother could afford.  The dark green of the window shutters and door is striking against the grey-brown bricks and light grey porch, and a sizeable swing hangs from the wooden awning supports.  It all makes for quite a picturesque home, and Enjolras suddenly feels strange – this reality so divergent from the life he had constructed for Grantaire in his mind.

He takes the brief time spent climbing the porch steps to steel his nerves, and reaches forward to ring the doorbell as soon as he sets foot on the welcome mat.  Something inside the house creaks loudly and Enjolras hears footsteps approach, a small silhouette appearing through the glass pane of the door.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Fifteen minutes later, Enjolras finds himself on the porch again, his mind’s autopilot pulling him in the general direction of his home.  He still feels the ghost of fingers wrapping around his hand, but refuses to acknowledge the way the limb trembles, betraying how truly shaken he feels.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The phone rings, shrill tones echoing through the near-silent house. Combeferre rushes to pick it up when he spies Grantaire's name on the call display.

“Hey, R, what's up?... Oh, hello Mme Grantaire, is everything alright?... Yes, he's home... Okay, one second, let me get him.”

Combeferre presses the intercom button that is set into the wall above his desk, selecting number two for his father's study.

The microphone crackles before a soft, clear voice says, “What do you need, Matthieu?”

“Mme Grantaire is on the phone for you, she says it's urgent,” Combeferre tells the man. “Shall I transfer the call?”

“I would appreciate that, thank you, son.”

“No problem at all, the call is coming through.” Combeferre presses the second dial on the phone, directing the call to his father's study and hangs up, returning to his homework.

Ten minutes later, his father knocks briefly on his door before opening it. He is in the middle of putting on the right sleeve of the blue peacoat he always uses for house calls. His medical supply bag is clutched in his right hand and he looks frazzled, a strange look on a man who is normally so collected.

“Matthieu? I have to leave right away, are you able to pick up your sister from daycare?”

Combeferre nods, checking the time and trying to figure out when he'll have to start walking as he mumbles, “Yes.”

“Thank you, I'll call the centre to let them know you'll be collecting her,” the man leans over to drop a kiss on the top of Combeferre's head.

“You shouldn't need to, they know who I am by now. This will be the fourth time I've been there and she's always excited enough to see me that they don't ask.”

“Alright, that sounds fair. Call me if there's any trouble.”

“Sure thing, dad,” Combeferre replies, hesitating for a few seconds before adding, “Um, dad? Are you going to R's house?”

His father pales slightly. “Yes I am.”

Fear strikes through Combeferre, sudden, cutting, travelling up to his vocal cords, rendering his voice weak when he asks, “Why?”

“I...” Combeferre's father gestures vaguely, and Combeferre knows that he's sorting through his words carefully so that he can give a straight and thorough answer; it's a surgeon's habit. “Grantaire sustained multiple injuries on his way home from school today and his mother would prefer for me to examine him in the comfort of their own home rather than take him to a hospital.”

Combeferre knows it’s a cookie-cutter response meant to answer the question without really doing so, but even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t be able to bring himself to respond because he knows what happened. Claquesous goes out for lunch every day and Grantaire's path home directly intersects with the cluster of fast food restaurants that are located near the school. This is his fault, he encouraged Grantaire to finish the day early instead of seeking refuge in a classroom, or the busy hallways. It would have been safer at school, Grantaire would have been fine if he had stayed, but Combeferre made a stupid mistake; he didn't think things through and his friend suffered because of it. This is why he can't make mistakes, why he's so very careful whenever his actions have the slightest chance of impacting other people; but he wasn’t as cautious as he should have been this time, and his best friend suffered because of it.  It’s Combeferre’s fault, and there’s nothing he can do to make this better.

Silence drags on and Combeferre's father finally nods curtly, patting his son's shoulder. “I have to go, now. I'll let you know what happens.”

Combeferre swallows hard and nods, feeling his throat constrict even as he tries to respond.

His father sighs. “He'll be fine, son, you don't have to worry.”

“Okay.”

Combeferre knows that his father doesn't believe him, but the man is pressed short for time, so he simply strides out of the room, casting a sad smile behind him as he leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, so sorry for the ridiculous amount of time it took for me to update this fic. University was a lot more work than I expected, so I got caught up in projects, assignments, and tests, and before I knew it, a few months had passed. I have quite a bit written for the next chapter or so, and holiday break is fast approaching, so I should be able to update sooner than it took me last time.  
> As always, thank you for reading; please tip your writers with comments and kudos. <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

"Thank God you're here, Etienne,” Grantaire’s mother says as she ushers Dr. Combeferre through the door.  “There's so much blood, I didn’t know what to do so I just brought him upstairs and he hasn’t woken up yet…"

She sounds as though she's on the edge of hysterics and he reaches out to place a steadying hand on her upper arm as he takes his shoes off.

"Everything will be fine, Marie.  I’m going to take a look at him and we will deal with this."

She nods absentmindedly, blindly accepting his comforting tone.  Turning away, she begins to climb the stairs and doesn't look back.  Etienne follows quietly, his socked feet padding up the creaking staircase.

When they get to the door to Grantaire's room – scraps of paper are tacked onto the wood, doodles spilling across the rough surface – Marie hesitates before she takes the doorknob in her hand and gently opens the door.

 

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

 

Enjolras makes it to the cross-section before his street when he stops walking.  He shifts his weight onto his toes, then to his heels and back again, watching the way the gravel presses outward from the pressure.  His thoughts haven’t stopped racing and he feels nauseous, fighting down bile when he remembers the way that Grantaire’s mother had looked at him.  Like she was disgusted by him.  She was so gracious at first, albeit clearly worried about her son’s well-being.  

_“What did you say your name was?”_

Mme. Grantaire hadn’t looked at all like Enjolras was expecting, either.  There was something undeniably warm and welcoming about her, despite the situation.  She’s a small woman, and looks nothing like Grantaire with her full cheeks; small, straight nose; and delicate, plump  stature.

_“Enjolras…?”_

Thinking back to all of his interactions with Grantaire -- with Combeferre in the library when he looked like he was about to cry, that day in the hallway when Grantaire was shaking against a locker, when he said he couldn’t breathe -- how much of that does his mother know?

_“Get out of my house.”_

What does she think of him?

_“GET OUT.”_

How would Enjolras’ parents react if he constantly had people bothering him at school like Grantaire?  What would happen if he provoked that response?  

His father would probably tell him to man up and his mother would quietly agree, although she would come to his room later and firmly run through of a list of all of the reasons why her son is better than the likes of Grantaire.

_“Don’t you dare touch my son again.  If I ever hear him speak of you, of anything you do to him, there’ll be hell to pay.”_

The idea of returning home after today’s events is making Enjolras feel increasingly uneasy.  No sooner does this realisation occur to him before he’s pivoted around and is heading toward the school again.  A quick glance at his phone tells him that fourth period will still be in session by the time he reaches the building.  Hopefully he can talk to his coach on Monday to see if he can get out of detention for skipping.  The office will call his parents when school’s done, but there isn’t anything Enjolras can do about that now, so he’ll just have to deal with it when he gets home.  Thankfully his locker is tucked just behind a stairwell at the back of the building and he should be able to sneak through one of the rear doors without anyone noticing him.  Enjolras will just grab his bookbag and his jacket, and he’ll decide what he’s going to do then.

About thirty minutes later, Enjolras finds himself leaning against a tree behind the school, his jacket zipper to his neck, hiding his bloodstained shirt, and his bookbag hanging off of his left shoulder.  When he made sure that the hall was deserted, he crossed to the bathroom, claiming a stall for his own.  He pulled up the camera app on his phone to use as a makeshift mirror and dug around in his bag until he found the water bottle he keeps with him at school.

Tipping it over to wet some toilet paper, he daubed at his nose until most of the blood wass gone, hissing when he got too close to the bruising that’s formed along the bridge.  There’s still a little dried blood clinging to his nostrils, but Enjolras decided that he looked presentable enough and left it be.

Now, outside of the school, Enjolras feels more than a little bit lost.  He could go home now and pass his frankly gruesome nose off as a fight with another student, which… well, it’s not a lie.

Enjolras sighs, he knows that his mother will fuss regardless of what excuse he gives and he really doesn’t feel like dealing with her antics.  He needs time to collect his thoughts, to sort through everything that has been happening.

This is all Grantaire’s fault.  If he had just kept his opinions to himself and wasn’t such a nuisance, Enjolras wouldn’t be dealing with any of this right now.  It’s frustrating and Enjolras almost wants to go back to Grantaire’s house and confront his mother about the implications she made, new anger fresh on his tongue.

He doesn’t do that; he continues to run through the routes this hypothetical conversation could take while he wanders away from home, and away from Grantaire’s house.  Once Enjolras gets close to the local university, his gait slows and he takes in his surroundings.  There are at least three Starbucks along the narrow street, tucked away amidst student housing and odd little shops.  It’s all rather quaint and the thought abruptly jerks Enjolras out of his brooding thoughts and the stark contrast between emotion and surrounding seems to drain him.  

Exhausted, and still feeling incredibly upset about the turn current events have taken, Enjolras decides to slip into a small, unassuming café that is located among a few boutiques.  When he steps inside, he’s greeted with a spicy, cinnamon scent, dimmed lighting, and dark wooden floors.  Most of the chairs in the café are mismatched, as are the tables and bookshelves that are sagging under the weight of their heavy occupants.  

The shop is mostly empty, save for the barista who is chatting with her co-worker behind the counter, eyeing Enjolras every once and a while, and three patrons who are crowded around a table, talking animatedly but with hushed voices.  Enjolras ignores them and makes his way to a comfortable looking chair situated by the back wall.  His tired body thanks him as he sinks into the seat, and he quickly grabs a book of the shelf adjacent to him so as to look busy.  Hopefully the employees don’t kick him out when they realize that he isn’t ordering anything.

Enjolras soon finds himself engrossed in a novel that proves to be more interesting than its drab cover would suggest, and as his eyelids begin to droop, the words on the page swim, losing their meaning and coaxing him toward a more peaceful state.

“Sir?  Excuse me, sir?”

Enjolras jolts awake suddenly, arm flailing for a second before it rests on the book that is splayed across his lap.  He looks up sheepishly at the barista who woke him.  She looks like she’s just old enough to be a university student, and the bags under her eyes lend to this hypothesis.

“We’re closing up, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Yeah, sure,” Enjolras says, placing the book back at its proper place on the shelf, and stretching as he stands up.  His eyes flick over to her nametag, _Musichetta,_ before he continues, “Sorry, I’ll just… uh… go.”  He finishes lamely, shrugging a little as he shuffles around the barista.

She smiles at him, almost fondly, and asks, “Did you want me to call a taxi for you, love?  It’s quite late and it’s gotten dark outside.”

Enjolras feels his heart begin to race and one glance up at the clock doesn’t help.  It’s very late. He fumbles for his phone, finding the screen black and non-responsive.  Shit.  His mother is probably at wit’s end and he’s definitely going to hear all about it when he gets home.

“That would be great, thanks,” Enjolras tells Musichetta, smiling back at her, although it’s wobbly and the worry gnawing at his stomach makes the expression difficult to hold.

Musichetta nods and turns to walk over to the counter, “Right, I’ll call one here for you, now.  Just wait by the door and you’ll be able to see the lights when it pulls up.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras mutters again, and takes his place by the door, staring at the frosted glass but not quite seeing it as thoughts race through his mind.

 

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

 

Combeferre’s sister, Aurelie, is snuggled up beside him on the couch, mouth open wide as she snores quietly to the tune of Tangled’s end credits.  Careful not to jostle her too much, he snakes a hand into his pocket and pulls out his phone, scrolling through the contacts until he reaches “G”.  His finger hovers over the little green envelope next to Grantaire’s name before he swipes downward and the names blur across his screen.

It’s a stupid idea.  What would he even say?  His only friend just came out to him, and he stood there and stared.  It would be so strange to message him now, but Combeferre really wants to know if Grantaire is okay.  He could always wait until his dad got home to ask, but how much could his father tell him?  Needing to know that his friend -- if he can even call Grantaire that, now -- is okay weighs in the balance with the uncertainty about where they stand with each other, and whether Grantaire would even want to respond.

Grantaire probably thinks that Combeferre hates him now, and Combeferre isn’t sure how to respond to that situation.

He tries to think back to a time when they’ve fought, but realizes that, despite the many little spats they’ve had, which have grown in intensity over the past few weeks, he and Grantaire never reach any real resolution.  They always fight, then let time lapse in awkward silence and strained conversations until both of them can pretend that nothing happened.

Now Combeferre is caught in a moment that he can’t escape, a misunderstanding that he doesn’t even begin to know how to go about fixing, and he has a feeling that this isn’t something he can just ignore.

The credits roll to a stop and Combeferre sighs, putting his phone down.  He scrubs a hand through his hair and down his face before heaving himself up from the plush couch cushion.  He gently wraps his arms around Aurelie and lifts her, bridal style, walking toward the stairs as she curls into his chest.  Five minutes later, he’s tucked her into bed, given her a goodnight kiss, and softly closes her door.  The soft glow of her nightlight seeps underneath it and Combeferre feels an easy smile curve on his lips as he retreats.

Back downstairs, he shuts off the television and turns around, staring at the couch cushion where he left his phone.  He takes it in his hand and turns the screen on, where his contacts list is still open, and the name “Courfeyrac” is staring back at him from the top of the “C” column.

So maybe Grantaire isn’t his only friend, but Courfeyrac hardly counts.  In actuality, it’s far more likely that Courfeyrac is using Combeferre to boost the _has-been-kind-to-the-poor-defenseless-nerds_ brownie points that he’s seemed to be collecting since the beginning of this year.

If Combeferre asked Courfeyrac for help now, how would he respond?  The lingering fear that he wouldn’t care makes Combeferre hesitate as he types out, “hey.”

The single word seems almost comically simple in the message bar, but Combeferre sits there for a while longer, until his screen goes dark and he has to unlock it again.

When Courfeyrac gave him his phone number, he told Combeferre that he should text him if he ever needed anything, and Combeferre is quite certain that this situation qualifies.  

He considers the greeting once more before closing his eyes and pressing send.

 

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

 

"I have to bring him to the hospital, I can’t take care of him here," Dr. Combeferre says tentatively, already anticipating the response.

"No."

"I can't-"

"You have to try."  Marie’s voice cracks and she pauses to take a deep breath.  Etienne waits patiently for her to collect her thoughts before she speaks again.  "I can't make him go back there, you of all people should understand."

"We can bring him to a different hospital, but he needs proper treatment.  I won’t be able to give him the care that he needs from here," Dr. Combeferre tries to reason.

"Do what you can here."

"I can take him.  You can stay here and I’ll take him with me –"

"Please."

Sighing, Etienne looks over at Grantaire, lying unconscious on his bed in a mess of soiled blankets; dirt and blood stick to his clothes, mingling to stain them an ugly brown.

He scrubs a hand over his face, taking a moment to compose himself before he firmly says, “No.”

Marie’s expression darkens and she steps closer to Etienne, craning her neck so that she can meet his eyes.  “We’re not going back there.”

“I never said that both of you had to, but I have duties that I need to follow through on as a doctor, and taking your son to the hospital to deal with his injuries is one of them.”

“You can’t just leave with him.”

“I am going to call an ambulance and bring him with me whether you want me to or not.  I’m sorry, Marie, but he’s been unconscious for upwards of an hour and I won’t allow you to endanger him because of past traumas.  You clearly don’t want to go to the hospital, and that’s alright, that’s your decision to make; but Cameron isn’t affected in the same way that you are, and he deserves to have the medical attention that he needs.”

Marie looks shocked, like she wasn’t expecting that response, and, well, that’s fair; Etienne had never been able to say no to her easily and she probably assumed that he would follow suit in this situation.  She opens her mouth and hesitates for a second before she whispers, “Okay.”

Etienne nods, and pulls his phone out of his pocket when she puts a hand on his arm.  

“Take care of him,” she pleads, reaching down to brush Grantaire’s hair away from his forehead.  The furrow between her brows deepens and Dr. Combeferre thinks for a second that she might start crying before she schools her expression back to something more composed.  “Please make sure he’s okay, and… and keep me updated?”

Etienne takes her hand in his, and squeezes reassuringly.  “Of course.”

 

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

 

Enjolras closes his front door behind him, dumps his bag on the floor, and unzips his jacket, tossing it on the bannister.  He has a brief moment to regret the way the door slams before his mother comes rushing into the foyer.

“Where on Earth have you been?  Do you even know what time it is?  I’ve been waiting up for hours and your phone kept going to voicemail, and… baby, what happened to you?” she gushes, angry tirade weaning as her fingers flutter over his frame erratically.  He flinches as her thumb brushes over his nose.  “Is it broken?  You’re bleeding, is that all your blood?  What happened?  Tell me exactly who did this to you—wait, no, let me call the police first, you can tell him so it’ll be fresh in your mind.  Oh dear, oh no, you’ve ruined your shirt, Alexandre, what did I tell you about being careful with your Armani?”

“It’s alright, Maman,” he mutters, shouldering past her into the hall even as she follows after him, not allowing more than a foot of space to come between them.

“This is most certainly not ‘alright,’ you tell me _right now_ why you’ve come trudging in here, covered in blood and dirt and… and god knows what else.”

Part of Enjolras wants to laugh at her scandalized tone but he reigns himself in, sighing instead and turning to face her as they reach the kitchen.  “Look, I just got in a fight with a kid at school, it’s not that big of a deal.  He punched me and that’s that.”

His mother bristles at his curt tone, lips softly curving downward into the disapproving look that Enjolras knows so well.  “This kind of violence just isn’t like you, I don’t understand, you’re such a gentle soul; and that certainly doesn’t explain why you look like this.”  She gestures to his wrecked shirt, stained red with blood splotches.

“That… That’s nothing, my nose just bled a lot, I’m sorry I wasn’t more careful, can I go upstairs, now, please?”

“No, no you may not.”  Enjolras’ mother’s voice is getting shriller and more high-pitched by the second, as it often does when events are contrary to what she would like.

He turns to the sink and soaks a paper towel with cold water, leaning over the grey marble countertop to wash the blood from his face.  Icy relief blooms in its wake, and a rush of pain follows close behind whenever he gets too close to his nose.

Picking flakes of dried blood from his cheek, Enjolras shrugs and asks, “So what do you want me to do, then?”

She’s momentarily taken aback but regains her composure quickly.  This is her high ground and although she’s not used to such a rapid acquiescence from her son, she seizes the opportunity.  “I already told you what I want.  You need to sit down with Marcus and tell him everything so that he can work with his legal team to resolve this atrocity.”

“Maman, guys fight, it happens all the time,” Enjolras tries to explain, trying to inject as much patience into his tone as possible.  “You don’t see any of them trying to take legal action because of a stupid high school brawl.”

“Well, that’s clearly because none of those lowlifes can afford a lawyer.”  She either doesn’t see the way Enjolras winces at the words, or chooses to ignore it, because she powers on.  “If I had my way, you would be in private school with the decent sort and none of this would happen.  You would be with young men of your calibre, not these – these – animals you call classmates.”

Something about what she’s implying or the way she’s saying it strikes a wrong chord with Enjolras, and he feels sudden anger rise to his skin.  He knows he’s turning red with a blood blush, and he can feel his emotions boiling over but he decides that he doesn’t care.

“That’s really fucking nice, but I’m not in private school and those animals are my friends, so if you wanted me to learn with the higher class and become a gentleman then you should have done something about it.  Stop trying to make your lack of foresight into my issue.  I—”

Enjolras’ mother looks absolutely horrified, and the expression on her face tells him that she’d love to lengthily berate him for his disrespectful language.  She doesn’t.  She isn’t correcting him, and he isn’t continuing his angry speech because the stairs are pounding with slow, heavy steps.  Despite their differences, they both know what that sound means.

The way the colour drains from Enjolras’ face speaks to the fact that his composure will be more valuable than his anger in the next few minutes.  That he’s going to have to explain himself in three sentences or less before what he is saying become unimportant, and he would very much like soon-to-be-present company to be in his favour right now.

The footsteps stop just outside the kitchen door and Enjolras takes a deep breath, organizes his thoughts, and opens his mouth to speak.

No sound comes out, however, when another, deeper voice inquires, “Why is there blood on my carpet?”

 

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

 

Combeferre's father doesn't arrive home until late that night, looking as worn out as he does after twenty four hour shifts at the hospital.  The time is of little consequence to Combeferre at this point.  He's been sitting at the kitchen table, slowly working his way through a box of cereal to pass the time.  His phone is sitting in front of him, untouched since he placed it there in front of himself 3 hours ago.

As soon as he hears the door click shut, the tired slope of his shoulders perks up and he's instantly alert.

“Is he okay?” Combeferre blurts when his father walks into the room.

The man sighs, heading straight for the coffee machine.

Perhaps it wasn't so bad.

Then his father reaches for the bottle of Baileys that he keeps in the highest cupboard, far away from Aurelie's reach.  It’s in the liquor cabinet that is only ever opened when he feels as though he deserves a treat after a particularly difficult day.

“He should be fine,” Combeferre's dad begins, “but he– you know I can't share details with you, Matthieu; doctor-patient confidentiality.”

“I understand, but I just want to know what R will be like on Monday… You know, what to expect?”

His dad nods in response, pouring a generous amount of Bailey’s into his freshly-brewed coffee, steaming hot just as he likes it, before taking a sip.  He uses the time it takes to consider his answer before speaking with a slow caution that he only uses when he has to explain difficult situations to patients.  Cut it down to three sentences, four if necessary, is his rule of thumb; it’s easier that way.

“Cameron was pretty badly shaken up, he might be jumpy or nervous for a while, but I expect him to make a full recovery.  His... er, his nose was broken as well; you know how sensitive that area is.  As such, the extent of the injury is never as bad as it appears.”

Combeferre nods, chewing on his lower lip.  “Okay… but what is he going to--”

“Son, you know that I can’t say anything more.”

“Can’t or won’t?  I don’t think--”

“Matthieu--”

“Listen to me!”  Combeferre raises his voice, hearing it crack in his throat as his desperation tears through the words.  “Listen, god… I just… I just want to know what happened, I can’t deal with this anymore.  I can’t ask Grantaire because I don’t even know if he still likes me anymore and all I want is to know that he’s-- that he’ll be okay.”

His dad blinks rapidly behind his glasses, mouth parted slightly as he tries to compose a new answer.  Combeferre waits.

“Of course Grantaire doesn’t hate you, I know…” He trails off, clearly uncertain about where his train of thought was supposed to go.

“You don’t know anything,” Combeferre spits, internally wincing at his harsh words, but the frustration that’s overtaken him doesn’t quite allow him to care.  “You can’t stand there, look me in the eye, and tell me that you know that everything will be alright, because it won’t.  I know that it won’t, I know that Grantaire and I will never be the same, and I still don’t know what happened to my best friend.”

As he speaks, his voice gets louder again and he is screaming halfway through the last sentence.  Combeferre bows his head, hands snaking up into his hair and he pulls.  Hard.  Anything to stop himself from crying, he’s so angry at everything -- at himself, his father, Grantaire, everyone -- that he didn’t realize his eyes begin to prickle with moisture until drops threaten to spill.

“I didn’t mean to imply that… This is obviously a very difficult situation for you, son, and I can understand that this is not easy for you to deal with.”  He leans forward to place his hand over Combeferre’s, and squeezes.  “I think that you need some time to think about this, and right now it seems like you’re a bit too worked up to think about a course of action that you can take.  Getting upset and emotional is a normal response, but you need to decide what you need to do to make this situation work well for both you and Grantaire, okay?”

Combeferre takes a deep breath, and wipes a finger under his eye, catching the tears that haven’t quite fallen, and nods.  “Okay.”

He feels like all of his energy has been vapourized along with the fury that had started to take hold of him.  The emotional exhaustion that he’s been holding at bay for hours is finally seeping into his bones and Combeferre doesn’t feel like talking about this anymore.

“Now,” his father peers over his glasses, scrutinizing Combeferre's wobbly perch on a kitchen stool.  “I don't know about you, but I'm not one for cereal soup.  I'd venture a guess that Captain Crunch doesn't quite live up to his name anymore.  Why don't you clean up and head off to sleep?  It's been a long day for both of us.”

Combeferre picks up his bowl and pouring the remainder of his midnight snack down the garburator.  Turning toward his father who is still leaning against the counter, savouring his drink, Combeferre steps forward into an easy embrace.   It's a practised movement between the pair and it only takes a second before there's a soft clink as his father sets his cup on the counter.  Within moments, Combeferre is enveloped in the warmth of arms circling around him, pulling him close and safe.  They stand there for a while, finding comfort in the simplicity of a hug.

“Thanks, Dad,” Combeferre mumbles into the man's shoulder, voice muffled against the soft cotton of his father's jacket.

“Anytime,” is the man's customary response.

When they part, Combeferre receives a peck on the cheek and heads up the stairs to his room.  He briefly hesitates as he passes the bathroom before deciding that he'd rather sleep now and shower in the morning, even if it meant doing extra laundry.  His bedsheets are due to be washed soon anyway.

Combeferre starts to drift off almost as soon as his head hits the pillow and he feels his muscles relax at the sound of his father softly singing to his sister next door.  Aurelie must have woken up when he walked in to say goodnight as she often does.  

Combeferre’s breathing starts to even out and through the hazy exhaustion that muddles his brain, the past twelve hours, as nightmarish as they were, seem more and more like a dream.  He tosses under his blankets and rolls to face his wall before he stills, body going limp with sleep.  Behind his back, his phone lights up, “new message” blinking brightly on the screen.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for taking such a long time to update, I was dealing with school and personal issues and before I knew it, a month had passed. Regardless, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. A million thank yous to sovinly who, as always, does a phenomenal job of editing and has added so much to this chapter, I don't know what I would do without her. Thank you also to lartenluver and feuillysheart for helping edit as well, their contributions were incredibly helpful.
> 
> I have no idea when I'll be able to update this fic again, but hopefully I'll find time after midterms are done, and I'm planning on doing a lot of writing this summer, so postings should start to be more regular when April ends. Thank you so much for sticking with this fic even though it takes me so long to add new chapters.
> 
> Anyways, thanks again for reading and don't forget to tip your fic writers with kudo and comments. :)


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